The Coming of Snow
by EddTheDolorous
Summary: Westeros is shrouded in darkness. Death and destruction cover the land. This story tells the fanmade culmination of this story. Who lives? Who dies? Find out as the story goes.
1. Prologue

Ser Forley Prester was a knight, and with that he believed came many responsibilities.

You were sworn to protect the undefended and ensure the safety of those who could not do it themselves, for one. Yet it seemed to him that all they had been doing these last couple of years was make these people suffer and taking their homes and lives away from them.

Now, he was in no position to question the wills of the high lords of Westeros, and nor did he answer back to the commands that he was given, but he didn't feel that this was right.

That was why he had been happy to receive this particular job.

For many of the knights sworn to Casterly Rock being sent on an escort mission back home would have been an insult to them and their fighting skills, but he would rather not spent any longer in the countryside that he had burned and ravaged.

He had been unable to look the women of the Riverlands in their eyes, always thinking to himself at the back of his mind that he may have killed their sons or husbands. There was no honour in that.

And honour had always been a big part of his life. From a young age he had marvelled at the stories of knights and their glory.

He had rejoiced at the tales of Florian the Fool, or Aemon the Dragonknight, going so far as to sneak into the story sessions, even when he served as a squire to his uncle.

The day that he had been knighted had been the proudest of his life, signifying that now he could join the ranks filled with such prestigious men that he held in the highest of regard.

It meant little to him, however, if his acts of great valour were slaughtering peasant boys and the occasional hedge knight.

He had been the third son of a third son, and a knighthood and service to his uncle and cousin had been all that he could ever hope for, or so his father had told him.

He had proved them all wrong, however, leaving Feastfires not long after his fifteenth name day and riding for Casterly Rock in the hunt for glory.

He had found it in the form of a tourney hosted by Tytos Lannister, the spectacular Lord of the Rock and Warden of the West, celebrating the name day of one of his distant cousins.

He had taken part in the joust at the tender age of sixteen, not expecting any glory. He had found the unexpected, however, unhorsing Jason Lannister on the second tilt.

Jason had been married to Forley's aunt Marla at the time, and she had insisted that he congratulate her nephew in person.

Jason had gone one step further and had knighted him then and there. From that day on he had looked up to the man almost as a second father.

He had fought by his side on the Stepstones, where he had earned himself more honour and made himself a friend in Kevan Lannister.

They had fought together in the Battle of Bloodstone, with Forley being assigned as a sworn shield of the boy who was then second in line to Casterly Rock. Together they had taken down and maimed the Ebony Prince, with Forley knighting Kevan after the young lion removed the man's head in one clean blow.

Those had been the days when Forley had dreamed of joining the Kingsguard. He had seen Gerold Hightower lead and the way that Barristan the Bold had driven his sword through the stomach of the Blackfyre monster. The white cloak had been all that he had dreamed about.

The opportunity had come when Gwayne Gaunt was killed, but he was passed over in favour of Oswell Whent, the brother of a more powerful lord.

He had distinguished himself in service to the golden lion of the Rock, but no credit came from Aerys Targaryen.

When Harlan Grandison died he was overlooked and Jaime Lannister was chosen. When Robert was choosing his Kingsguard the younger Preston Greenfield was selected to stand for the West.

His time had been and gone.

In those days he had been young and strong, a bull like the one that he wore on his breastplate, now he was older and slower, more stocky than he was muscled. His chance for glory had passed.

He had loved serving the lion of Lannister for many years, riding alongside Kevan into battle and even serving as Master-at-Arms of Casterly Rock for a short time, but he had grown to hate one that he had called a friend.

He had shed no tears when told of the death of Tywin Lannister. He had been a monster in the later part of his life.

Forley had been with him and Kevan when Lannister men sacked the capital, raping and pillaging as they went. He had implored him to spare the Dornish princess and her children, but he sent the manticore and the dog after them all the same.

Even then he had not questioned the honour that he found in service to the Lannisters. He still fought for them in battle, but he knew that all men who had stood by in silence that day were lost.

They had been sworn to protect the innocent and to defend those who needed defending. On that day, they all failed.

Any man who had sat back and watched Tywin do what he did there would join him in the lowliest of the Seven Hells.

Now he was on a simple escort mission, and after he hoped to ask Tywin's daughter to be released of service so that he could return home and start a family of his own. He was old, but he thought that he would still like to see himself bring life into the world.

The last time he had been back home was for his uncle's wake and laying his body in the Prester tomb. His own father had died some years before.

They said that Prester men were virile. Forley's grandfather had 3 sons, each of whom had also had three. Forley was his father's youngest.

His eldest brother had died on the Stepstones, cut down by Derrick Fossoway, whilst his other had died of a pox a few years after. This had meant that he had been his father's pride and joy when he was knighted by a Lannister of Casterly Rock.

Garrison Prester, his cousin, had two sons of his own, boys named Daemon and Artyr. One day young Daemon would rule over Feastfires, although Forley would probably be a resident of the family tomb by then.

Soon he would be able to see his cousin and nephews again. He couldn't wait.

They had passed the Golden Tooth a few days before, being greeted by Lady Lefford. She had been Leo's daughter, and he had told her of her father's heroism over a tankard of ale at the feast she held in their honour.

He was hoping that they could reach the town of Oxcross by nightfall, where they would likely be welcomed in to the Yarwyck hall.

They were being slowed down by the rolling houses that the Westerling mother had insisted they bring. She had complained about being too old to ride, so this had been the only alternative.

He had disliked the older woman from the first time that he saw her.

She was handsome for her age, that much was true, but she had a thin look and a gaunt face. He thought her cruel and disparaging of her son and daughters, all of whom he enjoyed the company of.

Eleyna and Rollam were both very young and they didn't truly understand the events of the last few weeks. The girl was courteous enough and the boy begged him to teach him the way of the sword and shield. Forley had ruffled Rollam's hair at that, promising him that in a few years time he would.

Jeyne was quieter than the other two, sadder even, and colder to both him and her mother. He couldn't blame the girl for this. She had been through a lot.

He often ate with the Westerlings, as they were amongst the few highborns that had accompanied his journey. Every night they were also joined by Edmure Tully.

The previous Lord of Riverrun had grown thinner since the two had last met at the very start of the war. His cheeks were hollow and he had lost his stocky build. Some nights he went without any food at all. He was not a well man, either in mind or in body.

He hardly talked either, and when he did his voice was little more than a whisper. His eyes were dark and empty, as if he had seen the ghost of someone he thought long dead.

He had been offered a place in one of the wagons, but he had indicated that he would prefer to ride. Forley kept him close by at all times, and always under armed guard and escort. He couldn't risk his escape.

He was, at this very moment, a short distance behind Forley, who was leading the Lannister procession. To his right was a Serrett man, holding the lion banner of Lannister high into the air. It ruffled lightly in the gentle wind.

The ground here was muddy and turned, as if many horses had ridden across in a chaos. Every now and again there was a red flower growing from the ground that reminded him of a droplet of blood.

The sight reminded him of the last conversation that he had with Jaime.

He had given him his mission, that of escorting Edmure Tully to Casterly Rock and then the Westerlings on to the Crag. He had also warned him to be wary, and had spoken of Beric Dondarrion and Brynden Tully, both of whom he thought would be out to ambush them.

If it looked like the Westerling girl was to escape then he was to kill her painlessly.

Those had been his orders.

It had been then that he had truly decided that the Kingslayer was not fit for knightood, and that he was his father born younger and anew. He was merciless, and would have a young girl killed for the crimes of her husband.

These were the thoughts that passed through his head directly before the attack came.

The men sprang out from the foliage at the side of the churned up road. He could see the sun flashing off armour, so he knew that some of them must be knights.

An arrow hit his horse square in the eye, meaning it bucked and threw him from the saddle.

There was a crunching sound when he hit the floor.

The Serrett man to his right had been less lucky. He had also fallen, but now he was spasming and coughing up blood, the bolt of a crossbow lodged in his throat.

Forley looked in the direction of Oxcross and saw the enemy charge forward, a large man in plaited mail leading them in the attack.

He played dead as they passed him, watching their boots go overhead and hearing them push on through the mud.

When they had all gone he turned to look at his companion.

They had crushed the man under foot, pushing his body down into the ground. He had stopped moving now. Nearby was the golden lion that he had proudly carried, trampled into the mud.

In fact most of the men that had been near the front with him had fallen, some still writhing in agony and others eerily still.

They had died a quicker death.

He pulled himself to his feet, wincing slightly as a shot of pain went through his back. He could hear the sound of fighting nearby.

This had been the attack that Jaime had predicted. They had been ambushed within the Westerlands. He thought that they were safe after passing the Tooth, and they had been but three days from Lannisport. He had been wrong.

He went for Edmure first, remembering the last orders that he had been given, but the man was gone, his guards both dead in the mud. They had been young men, grandsons of lords. He closed their eyes as a last mark of respect. They could have been asleep in the mud.

He got himself back to his feet, pulling himself onwards, his left leg wounded and dragging behind him. He had to do what he was last ordered to. If he couldn't kill Edmure then he would have to kill the girl.

The thought weighed on his mind as he edged himself closer to the wagon that she had taken as her own. Did he have it in him to murder an innocent girl? That wasn't something that a proper knight would do.

He saw the large knight again from a distance. That meant that he was approaching where the fighting was happening. He had just cut down a Marbrand man that had come at him with an axe. He must be physically strong, as he wielded his broadsword like a cleaver, cutting straight through the man's torso.

In his youth maybe he could have been a match for the tall knight, but as an old man and in his current condition he would be killed easily. He kept on then, avoiding the sight of the man who was awaiting his next opponent.

In his distraction he almost didn't see the young man that was charging at him, his sword drawn. Fortunately his eyes opened just in time for him to pull his own sword out of it's sheathe and skewer his enemy, falling forward on top of the dying boy.

He quickly pulled himself up, using his knife to give the gift of mercy, and carried on, leaving his sword in the corpse's stomach.

The final stagger in the direction of the wagon was the longest one yet. No-one came to challenge him on that final push. He held the knife at his belt, knowing what he had to do when he entered.

The inside of the wheeled house was dark, except for one candle that was lit in the far corner. The girl knelt before it, praying to the Seven, as she always seemed to be doing.

He approached her from behind, so quietly at first that she didn't hear him until he was halfway to her.

When she turned to look at him he could see that her face was wet with tears. She had been crying all alone in the darkness.

He wanted to run to her side and tell her that everything would be alright. He wanted to be a father to her and defend her like a knight should.

He was no knight today, though. He had his orders.

He made the last few steps towards her, his knife already drawn and ready for the cruel job that it must play a part in.

"Ser Forley, I heard the sounds of fighting outside. My brother and sister..."

"They are safe, my lady. I sent my best men to look after them. Your mother and Lord Edmure too."

"Thank you, Ser Forley."

The girls eyes were bloodshot from crying, and her voice croaked slightly as she talked, no doubt strained from her sobbing. She was a little girl, all alone, and he had to kill her.

"You know what I have to do, don't you, my lady?"

She rose from kneeling then and stood in front of him. She was much thinner than him, although only slightly shorter. She placed her left hand on his left shoulder.

"You are a good man, Ser Forley Prester. I urge you to do your duty."

She moved her hand down to his and pulled it up, so that the knife's sharp blade was against her throat, beads of blood appearing from the pale skin.

Then her eyes opened wider, and he turned.

The large knight was stood in the door, his armour pale and his sword drawn. Light came in from behind him, casting his shadow over the darkness.

"I am unarmed, Ser."

He held the knife up, dropping it to the ground. The point landed first and it caught in the wood of the wain.

He looked at the helmet that covered the knight's head from view. All he could see was two bright blue eyes.

The knight threw his sword to the side. He was taller and stronger than Forley, likely quicker too.

He took a step closer.

He was here for the girl too, that much was obvious. He had likely been spotted on the battlefield and then followed all this way.

His mind flashed elsewhere then, now that he knew how his great song would end.

He saw his father and uncle standing together. They had been strong men and had an untouchable brotherly love.

Then he saw Kevan, his oldest friend, his face creased from laughter. Stood next to him was Tywin, as stony faced as he had always been. He cried that he would never see Kevan again.

Then there was his cousin, a kind hearted man and no fighter like other Prester men. His face flashed before him, then he was gone.

Then he saw others. Jason Lannister and his golden hair, Barristan Selmy killing Maelys the Monstrous, Jaime Lannister at the feet of Aerys Targaryen.

He looked back up to the man that held his fate in his hands.

"I know what you must do. Please, do it quickly."

He could feel the Wolf Queen grasp for his hand as he spoke, willing him not to throw his life away.

He had spent his life in service to the lion of Lannister, he would not turn his cloak now.

The knight inclined his head towards him, a signal of respect given towards bravery on the field of battle.

The knife blade cut at his throat. He stayed standing for just a few seconds; thinking to himself.

He thought of Jeyne Westerling and how he had chosen not to kill her. Killing her would have spoiled his oath to protect those that could not protect themselves. He would have been no knight then. Maybe now he would be spared the Seven Hells that had awaited him before.

Ser Forley Prester died then, still thinking, but at least Ser Forley Prester died a proper knight.


	2. Reek

The snow held him in it's embrace.

It wasn't warm, like being in the arms of his mother as a babe or Kyra when he was still a prince. He mustn't think of Kyra now. She was gone. No more than a dog. He liked the dogs. They were his friends.

The snow covered him. The snow surrounded him, its coldness penetrated his skin to the core.

It drowned him.

Drowning had meant something to him once, when he had been Theon Greyjoy. It meant nothing to Reek. Nothing meant anything to Reek, least alone himself. Maybe he should drown himself here, in the snow. It would save him from Ramsay, at the very least.

 _Reek, Reek, it rhymes with meek_.

The snow was soaking through into his clothes, making him cold as well as wet, but then something yanked him upwards.

He was shivering as he looked up into the face of the man who saved him.

At first he thought it was Hother, hear to return him to the cruel masters of Winterfell. He failed in the air, trying to pull himself back to the snowy tomb.

Then he saw the eyepatch and the beard. He had the same hard face, frozen through many winters, yet this man was not the same who stayed in the Stark castle.

The Bolton castle, it was the Bolton castle. There were no Starks. Robb was dead, Bran was dead, Rickon was dead. He had not seen Sansa in years. She was probably dead. Arya was probably dead. The real Arya anyway.

There was just Reek. He was the only one, and he was no true Stark.

The Boltons ruled the North now.

"Look what we have here, Hugo. A soiled kraken in the snow. He stinks worse than a Frey."

The man's voice was hard and strong, not thin like Roose's, nor cold like Ramsay's.

"I found myself another."

There was a second man who came out of the snow, followed by a third.

Reek saw quickly enough that all three were strong men, with large frames and broad shoulders. One of them was much younger than the other two.

The one that had just talked was of an age with the man that had pulled Reek from the ground. He had dark hair that fell down the side of his face, and his belly was large. Theon's voice at thee back of his head told him that he had known this face when he had been a man.

He carried a girl in his arms. She was thin and pale, with rasping breaths.

Jeyne, it had to be. Or was it Arya. He couldn't remember. His missing fingers ached from the snow and the cold.

"She is badly hurt. They must have jumped from the ramparts. We are lucky they are both alive."

"Lucky for the girl, maybe. I would happily see the Turncloak dead, although maybe it is a fortune he lives. This way I can take his head myself."

The large man that was holding him had rough hands, and they tightened at the prospect of killing him.

"Not just yet."

The one that was holding Arya interrupted the torture.

"We deliver him to Stannis. He will give us the boy's head, I have no doubt. First we let the Rooloos have him."

This man was in charge here, Reek could tell that much. His voice cut through the cold.

"We should withdraw, then see if we can get the girl breathing properly. I would like to ask her some questions."

A grey man joined them on the traipse through the snow. Reek had first thought it to be Maester Luwin, until he remembered that the old man was dead.

This one was as grey and old as Luwin had been, although his Maester's cloak was less baggy. He had more hair than Luwin also, although it was long it was also grey, reminding him of straw.

They passed through a small barrier of trees, entering a clearing covered in snow and rocks. There was a frozen over pond in the centre.

The man carrying him threw him to the ground. The air left his lungs as he hit the frozen ground. The Maester had gone to Arya, who had been propped up against a tree.

"Are you Arya Stark?"

That was the man that had been carrying him. Arya hesitated for a few seconds before nodding.

"You are the daughter of Lord Eddard Stark?"

The younger man had spoken then. This time she didn't hesitate before nodding.

"Who was the Master of Horse of Winterfell when you left with your father?"

She hesitated again, staring at the ground.

"Hullen."

When she said his name it was in a whisper, and Reek knew why. He remembered the face of the dead Master of Horse too.

No, he couldn't. Reek had never known the man. Theon Greyjoy had known him, and he was no longer Theon Greyjoy.

 _Reek, Reek, it rhymes with weak._

"Who was the steward?"

She hesitated more at this, trying to stop tears from coming to her eyes.

"Vayon Poole."

"How many children did he have?"

"One daughter."

"Her name?"

"Jeyne."

He heard the entire discussion, and the sound of her name made him remember. The girl was not Arya, not as Ramsay had wanted her to be. She was Jeyne Poole.

He had beaten him for it when he found out. He had been promised a princess, but his father had told him that the real Arya wasn't befitting of a bastard. He had broken one of Reek's ribs.

"Who is that?"

The young man was pointing at him. This time she spoke with no hesitation.

"Theon Greyjoy."

He flailed at the sound of the name.

"No. Not Theon Greyjoy. Reek. Reek, Reek, it rhymes with freak, Reek, Reek, it rhymes with weak."

That earned him a kick from one of the men, and he remembered being in the Dreadfort prisons, where Ramsay would let them beat him and kick him. The Frey boys. Damon Dance-For-Me. Skinner. All of them. His boys.

"Theon Turncloak, more like. Blood traitor and kinslayer."

The man that had carried him was glaring down at him. It had been he who had buried his boots in his chest. He tried to shake his head, but he didn't want to be kicked again.

"The girl is Arya Stark, then. She is no puppet of the Boltons. No girl her age would have had knowledge as good as she about the goings on of Winterfell. No living girl anyway."

They were wrong. She wasn't Arya Stark and he wasn't Theon Greyjoy. He was Reek. He would always be Reek.

The three men sat down on rocks as the Maester looked at the girl. They talked of knights and fires, laughing at many comments made. These were true northerners, with large muscles and thick beards. Maybe they had fought with Robb.

Then he saw his former brother, lying in front of him, blood coming from the crossbow bolts in his chest. Ramsay had told him at length about how it had been his father that had dealt the killing blow.

 _We should have died with Robb._

The voice was back in his head. It never left him. The voice of the dead. The voice of Theon Greyjoy, taunting him and boasting to him. He had died, yet he had never gone away. Never truly gone away.

He could hear Ramsay's voice too, as sharp as the blades that he loved and as cold as the snow that was his second name. He told him that Theon was dead. He told him that Theon was gone. He was Reek now, and he always would be.

Snow.

Theon screamed in his head at this thought. There was another. There was another! Maybe he wasn't dead, maybe he could still live. Just because Ramsay had said that Theon was dead didn't make it true. Ramsay had said that Jeyne was Arya and he had been wrong about that.

He flinched at the thought. Ramsay could not know that he had doubted him. He would hurt him for it, as he always hurt him when he dared to question his decisions. Maybe he would take a toe or a finger.

But it was true. Even if courteous Sansa and fiesty Arya were dead...there was another.

The bastard. He still lived. Maybe he could forgive him. Maybe he could bring Theon back to life.

"Get a fucking move on, Maester. If the Bastard finds us here you can guarantee that we will all four be flayed."

"Should I not look at the boy too, Lord Mors?"

Even the man's voice was old. It sounded like the rustle of old papers that he had sometimes heard when he was with Chayle in the library.

"Leave the Turncloak. Any injuries that he has suffered are fully deserved."

"Aye. I bet he wishes that he had never butchered those boys now."

He had thought that maybe he had a defender in the leader of the pack, but he could see the man's eyes from where he lay, and there was nothing but hatred there.

"How does she fare, Maester? Will she live?"

"She will, Lord Rickard. I fear that she will have trouble walking any distance, however."

"Never mind that. Maester"

The young one rose from his sitting position and walked to the girl's side.

"She is small enough. I will happily carry the Arya the rest of the way."

"The Turncloak walks then. I have had his clothes stain my furs too long. Get to your feet, Greyjoy."

At first he considered not rising, but then he did as he was told, not wanting another kick to the stomach.

His legs were stiff as he walked, making it difficult for him to keep pace with even the Maester. He remembered when Lord Stark had brought him out here with Robb and the bastard, showing them how to shoot rabbits and hunt game.

That had been a good day. He remembered that Theon Greyjoy had been good with a bow when he had all his fingers.

Lord Stark was dead now, and so was his son. His bastard still lived however, on the Wall somewhere.

They reached a small encampment soon after they left the trees. There was an armoured knight stood at the entrance to an abandoned village. He wore a shield that depicted two men crossing swords. He was a tall man, although two of the men that he approached with were taller.

"Who dares to approach the camp of King Stannis Baratheon, First of his-"

His voice was a booming one, but that didn't stop the one that the Maester had called Mors interrupting him.

"I am Mors Umber, Castellan of the Last Hearth. You fucking know who we all are, Farring. Let us past."

"Who are the two that come with you? The girl and the cripple."

The other older man stepped forward at this point.

"Gifts for you Rooloos. We bring the Arya Stark, as well as Theon Turncloak."

Reek spotted a grimace from underneath the man's helmet. This news didn't seem to make him happy.

"Very well. You may pass. You know where you find your king."

Reek could tell that there was no friendship between any of these men. Farring even looked on the Maester with distaste in his eyes.

Other men gathered around as they walked through the camp. He saw pinecones, butterflies and spirals, although he did not know what these symbols were meant to represent.

He saw one man dressed in armour with a black stag on his shield. Reek seemed to remember Theon seeing a fat man with a stag shield in Winterfell many years ago.

Soon they were stood in front of a large tent. They didn't make any move to enter. A large man stood outside the entrance. He was dressed all in wolf pelt robes, a large sword hanging from his belt. He had an even longer beard than Mors.

He was joined by two other men soon enough.

One of them was lean, his face pockmarked and scarred. His cloak was snow white, as was his shield. The cloak was clasped together by a pin in the shape of a butterfly.

The other man commanded more respect. His face was hard and lean, with hollow cheeks and thin lips. He was much taller than Reek, but less so than the three Northerners.

He ended up on the floor again, as Mors Umber kicked him from behind so that he fell on his knees. This brought laughter from some quarters, although not from the man in front of them.

"King Stannis."

The three northmen stayed stood, not going to their knees. This clearly angered the butterfly knight, as his hand moved to his sword.

"You kneel before your king!"

"Silence, Ser Richard. I think our Northern friends have brought us great gifts. Hand over the girl. She is the Lady of Winterfell and I wish to speak with her."

"No."

Mors Umber's answer was simple enough, but it seemed to make the silence of the camp a bit heavier. A man stepped forward, a flying pig on his shield.

"What did you say, brute? Show more respect when you talk to your king."

"I said no, knight. The girl is Northern. She stays with the North. You may speak to her, but not with your knights present, and only when either me or my brothers stand as witness."

Another knight stepped forward, his only identifying feature a scar on his forehead.

"Your brother is a traitor, Umber, or had you forgotten your disgraced lineage."

The one they called Farring approached them from behind, his sword already drawn.

"You Northmen are the savages we expected. Now you have what you want you intend to retreat back to your hovels and your ugly women. We ought to slaughter you all right now."

It was the one that Reek had thought of as a leader that stepped forward then, his voice low and threatening.

"Just you try it, Farring. Kill us and you lose the North. But I bet three Northmen could butcher your valiant knights with ease. And we have far more than three northmen here."

Men bearing pinecones and fists reached for their weapons as the two men stood off each other, the Northman inviting the attack. Farring did nothing.

"I thought not. A shame. Guess I won't be able to spill blood until I cut Bolton throats."

The silence of the standoff was then broken by a shout. This one wasn't a male's voice, although it was harder than most female voices that he had heard before. It sounded familiar as it whipped in on the wind.

He turned to look for the source of the disturbance, but found himself surrounded by dark fabric, arms stretched around his back.

"Brother, they told me that you had been recovered."

Reek had no siblings. He had killed the last of them when he had murdered young Bran and Rickon.

Theon Greyjoy had siblings though. He had grown up with three of them, but two had died. There had been a girl, he remembered. He could see her face in his mind, and then he saw it in person as she pulled away.

It was a thin face, and her nose was too large for it. There were no tears in the eyes of Asha Greyjoy as she looked upon her younger brother.

"Theon, are you okay? What has that bastard done to you?"

"No bastard. You can't call him bastard. He doesn't like it."

He blurted out the words, to sniggers from some of the king's men. They were silenced by his sister's glare.

"Stand aside, Asha Greyjoy. On the orders of the king."

Asha looked up at the knight in the white cloak. Theon tried to pull closer to her, Reek tried to pull away. Theon won.

"He is my brother. Can I not hold him to me? Can I not show my own kin that I miss them?"

"Theon Greyjoy is a traitor to the realm and a pet of the Bastard of Bolton. He will reside in chains on the floor of my tent. You will see him later, after me and my knights talk with him first. You have no problems with us taking the boy, Umber?"

Mors shook his head at this.

"As long as I get to bear witness to the moment when life leaves his body then I care little for his fate."

The knight with the scarred head stepped forward and pulled him away from his sister. Asha looked back at him as he was dragged away, her face one of silent anger, but still no tears in her eyes.

He was thrown to the floor of the large tent, the door closed behind him. The king was sat at his desk, his face deathly serious. He was joined by five of his knights.

The one with the white cloak stood behind the king, not looking at him on the floor. The one with the flying pig shield stood behind him, whilst the one with the scarred head stood on the right. The large northman stood by the door, and Farring paced up and down on the left side of the tent.

"I do not want you engaging in fights with our Northern companions, Godry. If you want Winterfell for your own then you will show me that you can cooperate with them."

"You should not allow them to talk to you like that, my gra-"

"I will talk to you about it no further, Ser."

The king's eyes had turned onto the knight then, and Godry Farring visibly backed away from the glare.

The scarred man moved forward then, offering a letter to the king.

"Maester Pylos received this, my Grace. It says that the boy Commander of the Night's Watch is dead. Killed by wildling raiders that he allowed past the Wall. Bowen Marsh has declared himself Lord Commander, pending election."

Stannis quickly read through the letter before throwing it to the side.

"Has Maester Pylos received anything else, Ser Robin?"

"Yes, your Grace. He has also received letters from the Shadow Tower and Long Barrow. Ser Denys Mallister has declared Bowen Marsh a pretender, whilst Iron Emmett has gone a step further. He insists that Lord Commander Snow has been murdered."

There was a silence then, as Stannis stared off into the distance.

"I offered the bastard a way off the Wall and he refused me. He should have taken the chance instead of playing at honour. What news of the Princess Shireen and the Lady Melisandre."

"Lord Commander Marsh has assigned five rangers to escort them to Deepwood Motte, my grace. They are led by a man called Leathers."

"If any in that party die then Marsh shall feel the king's steel. After Winterfell is fallen then I will send men to the Wall to get to the bottom of what has happened. Tell Maester Pylos to send a reply to all three, informing them of this."

"As you say, my Grace."

Ser Robin bowed then, before leaving hastily. Stannis' eyes turned towards Reek. He felt the pull of a man's hand on the back of his hair.

"You are Theon Greyjoy?"

The king asked him in a tone of derision.

"I heard you to be a handsome boy and quick to smile. It seems that you are now an old man."

"I am not Theon. Theon is dead. I am Reek. Reek, Reek, it rhymes with freak."

"That is the name that the bastard gave you? The Bastard of Bolton."

"No. Not a bastard. He will hurt me."

"He will be too dead to hurt you. I don't plan on letting the bastard escape me. Ser Clayton has an interest in his methods. I believe he wants to see whether they will likewise work on the master. Would you like to see that?"

Would he like to see Ramsay in pain? Theon Greyjoy would have. Did Reek? Did Reek want that for the man that had aged him and taken his fingers and toes.

"Yes. Yes."

"I will let you live to see it happen if you can tell me what Roose Bolton is planning behind his walls."

"He has men. Many men. Meremen and Barrowmen. But he also has ghosts. Winterfell is full of ghosts and murderers. Tricksy murderers, yes. The Frey boy. He was one. The Hooded Man was another. And the wives, yes. Abel's wives. Murderers all."

"You talk in useless sentences. Only a fool could understand you."

Godry Farring stepped towards him, his knife drawn.

"Let me deal with him, my Grace. He offers us nothing useful."

"No. Frey men and Meremen leave the come soon. Ramsay follows them. He wants the king flayed for him. So that he can have a second Reek. He wants the cunt of the king's daughter, so he can flay her as he rapes her and give the body to the dogs. He wants the king's witch, so that he can burn her alive and hear her screams. He comes."

"Is that all he wants? Who leads the Manderly men? What of the Freys?"

"I don't know. Noone told Reek. Noone told Reek."

Stannis rose from his chair and stepped down nearer to him.

"If the boy's babbles are to be believed then we need to ready ourselves. Our enemy approaches faster than we could have thought. We must begin to set traps in the woods. Godry, take Maynard Fell and some of the Northmen and look for the banners of Manderly and Frey."

The knight nodded, sheathing his knife before leaving, the knight of the winged pig going with him. Stannis knelt before him.

"You will have to die eventually, you know that?"

Theon nodded, Reek retreating to the back of his mind.

"I have to die for what I did. It is only right."

"Would you like to see your sister before that happens?"

He nodded again, and Stannis gestured to the silent Northman at the door. The king rose from his kneeling position and returned to his seat. Asha came charging in soon after.

"Theon! Did they hurt you, my brother?"

He shook his head slightly as she approached, his grey and brittle hair shaking slightly with the movement. She put her hand on his shoulder then, staying stood upright.

"I will give you whatever you want for the life of my brother. I will give you myself, my birth right, my name, my body. Whatever you want."

"I already have all of those things. None of them are yours to give. You know that your brother has to die. So does he. He admits it himself."

She looked down at him then, hurt in her hard eyes.

"If my brother must die then let it be near the sea. That is how a Greyjoy should die."

"He is more Stark than Greyjoy, is he not? we are too far away from the sea for me to have him executed there. I need the Northmen to see him die. You understand why."

"If that is the case then let him die like a Northman. Take his head in front of the Winterfell heart tree, as Ned Stark would have done."

He inclined his head to her at this, conceeding that he would do this for her. She hugged him once more and then the Northman escorted her away.

"You sleep here, Theon Greyjoy. Ser Richard will stand guard over you. He is a good man."

Stannis left him then, the Northman following him as he did. The white knight stayed stood, and Theon crawled over to the corner, curling up. His body ached from the day, yet here he was. Safe and hidden from Ramsay.

As he closed his eyes, though, all he could see was the blood oozing from Robb's body. Even here, even away from the castle of Winterfell, his ghosts still haunted him. They would never stop.


	3. Samwell Tarly

The wagon pulled on through the forest, the thick trees and dense canopy cutting most of the sunlight. Here and there it fell through to the ground, like warm droplets of rain.

Their surroundings were seemingly neverending. It was like they had been travelling through the same patch of woodland for three days in a row, ever since they had entered the forest two days ride out of Oldtown.

They had been accompanied by others at first, an old man named Leyton and his son, Baelor, named for the current lord of the High Tower and his firstborn heir. Sam had met Baelor Hightower once, when his father had come to do business in the city. He had been kind and courteous to him, unlike most of his father's friend's sons. To them he was a fat craven and nothing more.

Baelor had offered to show him around the Citadel, something that Sam had only ever dreamed about in his wildest fantasies. His father had forbidden it. Much like he had forbidden everything else that Sam had tried to do with his life. They had left the day after, with Randyll claiming that he had finished the business that had brought him there.

He had looked back on that trip to Oldtown with some fondness, more than could be said for visits to other castles that his father had taken him on.

Once they had visited Nightsong, back when Bryen Caron had been the lord. He had died a few weeks after their visit, but all Sam could remember were the harsh words that the lord's bastard had spoken to him when the Master-at-Arms forced him to get involved in the fighting. he had called him a craven and a pig, all words that he had heard before, but he had also claimed that he would bring shame on his family.

Sam had whimpered at the thought. He had only been seven.

He had met the same reception everywhere that his father took him. He had been mocked by Paxter Redwyne's twins when they went to the Arbor, Lorent Caswell had treated him disparagingly at Bitterbridge, and the two Fossoway brothers had knocked him senseless on a trip to Cider Hall.

He had hated his father for making him associate with them, but then he had hated his father for most things.

There had been others that accepted him.

He had been taken to a tourney at Highgarden once, to celebrate the twelfth name day of the Tyrell lord's youngest son.

He had watched with relative boredom as the knights rode back and forth, hitting each other with long poles. Hyle Hunt had beaten his brother, he remembered, and his father had applauded vigorously.

Then there had been Garlan Tyrell.

He had been newly knighted, given the honour by the king himself not a year before. He had rode with grace and dexterity, unhorsing Hyle in just on run.

It had been events afterwards that had caused Sam to remember him.

Sam had been wandering round the camp, trying to find his mother and sister, when the Redwyne twins fell upon him. They had kicked and beaten him. Then they had stopped.

When he dared to open his eyes it had been Garlan that stood over him, smiling a soft smile and offering a hand so that he could pull him up.

He had chased them away, protecting him like his father or his sworn swords never had. He truly deserved the epithet that he would later be given.

He had taken him to see his brother, Willas.

Willas Tyrell had looked similar to his brother, but with his hair cut shorter and his eyes blue instead of golden. His leg was crippled, causing him to sit in his room watching the tourney from afar instead of being up close.

He had greeted Sam well and shown him the books and scrolls that he had made his father buy for him. It had been that day that he had wished he had been born a Tyrell, not a Tarly.

He had corresponded with Willas in secret, talking about his desire to become a maester and his hatred of fighting, but then his father had found out. He had beaten Sam, ridiculed him and starved him, locking him in the dungeon when he heard of his desire to become a Maester.

He had sent him to the Wall to die an honourable death, so that he could boast to his friends about how his son died defending the Watch. He would not be happy to learn that Sam was back in the south.

He had told Jon, he had told him everything. He had told him all about his father forbidding him from being a maester, but he hadn't listened. He had been his friend and he had ignored him.

He could feel someone's hand on his shoulder then, and he turned to find her face in his.

She was so beautiful that he didn't care who she was; what she was.

She had remained slim, even after childbirth, and her face was gaunt. Her eyes were a deep brown, like chestnuts, a luxury they had never been able to afford when he was growing up.

She was brave too, and clever. Clever for a wildling anyway.

 _Free Folk._

He corrected himself in his head. That was what she liked her people to be called.

She had served many years under her father's cruel rule. She knew about parental issues more than he ever did. yet she listened to him talk about his father nonstop, and never mentioned her own.

Gilly.

She was the only thing that kept him going.

Then he realised that he had been staring at her for a long time without moving or making any attempt to speak. He had just gotten lost in her eyes.

"Sam. Can you hold Aemon. My arms are tired."

"Y-yes. Of course."

Sam happily took the baby, cradling his soft skin in his arms. He was still young, but was mostly silent. Gilly had said that babies born in battle or tragedy often grow up to be sullen and brooding.

He wasn't officially called Aemon, that was just how they referred to him. He couldn't have a name yet, Gilly insisited, but they needed something to call him.

He was Mance Rayder's son, not hers. She had come to care for him though. Not as she would her own child, but well enough.

He stroked the boy's head, feeling the hair that was starting to push through.

He had never held a baby before Aemon. He had been too young when Talla, Megga and Amelie were born, and his father had never trusted him with his baby brother.

The memory of Dickon was almost as bad as that of his father.

His brother had been a bully, mocking him for his size and his cowardice. He had always excelled at hunting and swordfighting, being his father's pride and joy since he could pick up a sword.

When Dickon was old enough it had been him that had gone away on trips, with Sam being left behind to spend time with his mother and sisters. One time their father had caught Talla teaching him how to sow. The two had been separated for a week and denied food for two days.

he had called him a girl after that, saying that he was more fit to spend time with the women than the men, and that was why he was left behind on hunts. Sometimes he was brought along, but only ever to pacify his mother.

Even then he had been mocked, with the Hunt brothers pretending to shoot him and saying that they had caught a squealing pig. His father had laughed at that, but had beat Sam later for allowing it to happen.

The castle of Horn Hill was at the centr of the thick redwood forest that lay north of the Red Mountains. It wasn't a large castle, but it had been untaken for centuries.

The Tarlys had been a warrior house, using the woods to ambush passing travellers in the days of old. They had claimed the title of King of the Trees before the Gardeners had brought them into line.

Randyll often ignored this bandit history when he talked of the pride and honour of the Tarly name.

"First in battle."

That had been his battle cry as he led the Reach armies into every battle they fought, commanding the vanguard with a fearsome presence.

It was not long before they arrived, but even here Sam could hear the battle cry on the wind.

The chatter of the birds and animals was replaced with disparaging calls from his brother and father, the mockery from Horas and Hobber, the names that Hyle and Ethan had called him.

Then they were gone, and they were replaced instead by Gilly. He shook his head at this, and the sound returned to the usual. Birds calling to one another, branches waving in the wind and the sound of the stream that ran alongside the path.

Today was the day that they would get to the Tarly castle of Horn Hill. He knew it in his heart. He would have to see all those people that he had disliked when he was younger. Maybe he would get to see his mother and Talla too.

He didn't intend to stay very long. The journey back to Oldtown would be lonely, with no Gilly or Aemon to pass his waking hours with. He would make do, though. Marwyn had given him a dusty tome to read before heading off to Essos. It was all about the death of dragons. He hadn't opened it yet.

Soon they started to make their approach to the castle. He remembered the route well.

First the wagon had to climb a slight incline, where the path turned yellow and rocky, then it must cross the stream, which ran around the base of the hill, before making a steeper climb to the castle of Horn Hill itself.

It was named for the hill that it sat upon. Supposedly the castle had been first built by two legendary sons of Garth Greenhand who had wed a woods witch. Likely as not it had been first founded by outlaws who used it as a base of operations.

Soon they left the trees, the wagon rising up above the canopy and the highest trees were soon below them. The path spiralled around the hill, making the steep incline more gradual and the castle better defended.

Gilly looked out in awe over the ocean of trees. She was not used to thee warm south and the foliage found here. She had grown up in the Haunted Forest beyond the Wall, where the trees were half dead all year round. This place was entirely new to her.

The sun was now beating down on them, and Sam started to sweat under his heavy black cloak. He had to wear it, though. It was all he had that showed him as a brother of the Night's Watch.

When they reached the top he was dismayed by the man that had been sent to greet them.

Ethan Hunt was not a tall man, being short and stocky of build. He had an almighty moustache, although his chin was clean shaven. His twin had always been the kinder of the two, although not by much. Ethan had been one of the many knights tasked with teach Sam the way of the sword. He had failed like all the rest.

Now he stood in front of the wooden gates of Horn Hill, his hands on his hips and a venemous glare in his eyes. The wagon stopped in front of him.

"Tarly! Get out here at once!"

His booming voice reminded Sam of the days spent training with a sword in his hand, commanded to do many things that he didn't know how to do.

"Did I not make myself clear! Get out of that bloody wagon!"

He scurried then, passing Aemon back to Gilly so that he was soon standing in front of Ser Ethan, shaking slightly under his black cloak.

"Still fat and craven, I see. I wonder if you have got any better at arms. Let us find out."

Two other men came out from the shadows cast by the wall, their swords already drawn. Ethan had pulled his own blade from its sheathe.

"Your brother has told us not to kill you here. He never said anything about bruising you, boy."

The first swipe came from the man on the left. Sam jumped back, but his feet got tangled and he fell to the stony floor. The pain rushed up his back and down his legs, and soon it was magnified. The men crowded around him and started to beat him with the flats of their swords. He cowered there, taking the hits as they laughed, remembering when this had happened before.

"Stop! You're hurting him!"

He heard the girl's cry, and felt her push one of the men to the side. When he pulled his hands away from her face he saw Gilly, her body pressed up against his as she protected him from thir attacks. She was suddenly pulled away, as Ser Ethan grabbed her by her hair.

"What kind of a whore are you to talk to a knight as such? I ought to-"

He was cut off then, by the voice of an older woman. It was a more refined voice than Gilly's, and Sam recognised it at once.

"You ought to what, Ser Ethan? Let the girl go and halt the attack on my son? Harlan, Derik, stand aside."

The two men that had joined Ethan in his attack bowed their heads as they moved. Ethan dropped Gilly but stayed stood where he was.

"I was ordered, by Lord Dickon himself."

"If my memory serves, Ser Ethan, my husband is still lord of this castle. I am his lady, and you are his knight. Stand down, or else I may have to send a report of your insubordination to the capital, and have your friends here clap you in irons.

Melessa Florent approached closer then, with Ser Ethan's face twisted in a silent fit of rage.

She was just as Sam had remembered her, thin and kind looking, with flushed cheeks and long brown hair. She lacked the usual pointed ears of the Florents, instead preferring the Crane traits of her mother.

There was a fire in her eyes as she stared down Ser Ethan, and eventually the man backed down, sheathing his sword, and bending his neck to her in a sign of resignation.

"Good. Go tell my daughters that their brother is home, and ready Dickon on his father's chair. They will gather to meet their brother. Tell Dickon to be on his best behaviour."

"Yes, my lady."

Ethan left, his red cloak sweeping the ground behind him, his back straight. The two men that had joined him followed, both dressed in darker colours, greens and browns, mostly.

"Mother..."

"You should get up, Samwell. I cannot very well talk to you when you are on the ground."

He rose hurrriedly, dusting off his black garments and looking back up to her. He was slightly surprised when he felt her arms wrap around him in an embrace.

"I have missed you, Samwell. The place has been so much emptier since you left."

She pulled away then, and he was surprised to see the glisten of tears in her eyes. She was happy to see him?

"Come, I think you will have many of people to reacquaint with in the coming hours."

She turned then to Gilly, curtsying before the girl.

"You must be Gilly. You are a pretty thing. Samwell didn't say in his letter. I suspect you will have plenty of new people to meet. Come, both of you."

Gilly's eyes moved quickly between him and his mother. She didn't know how to behave with a lady south of the Wall. This kind of interaction had never been taught to her with her father.

The two guards on the other side of the gate nodded to him as he past. Their faces looked familiar, but he had been too long gone to give them names. He was surprised to see a welcome party had formed on the other side.

He had only just set foot inside the castle again when he was hit by a flying object. At first he was unsure what it was, and then he realised it was a person. His sister Talla had wrapped herself around him. His other sisters, Megga and Amelie, came to him too, pulling at his cloak and hugging him after Talla let go. He had missed all of them.

Then there was the old maester, Argon, and Daeron, his apprentice. The old man was as grey as his robes, with thinning hair and a constantly dazed look. He had been a friend to Sam when he had been younger, encouraging his lust for knowledge.

Daeron was of an age with Sam, and they had grown up together. He had been eleven when he had been sent to Horn Hill from Oldtown. He was the son of a whore, or so he had told Sam, and a maester of the Citadel. They had wanted to get rid of him, and so he had been sent here.

They both greeted him warmly, offering their hands to him. Daeron bent the knee to him as a joke, and others laughed.

A few guards had gathered too, men that Sam remembered as kinder than the others. They were all older, past forty by now, but they had encouraged him when he was younger, and been kinder to him when he had been sad. He was ashamed at himself that he couldn't remember their names.

Then Gilly came through, and Talla hugged her too, marvelling at the babe she carried in her arms. Amelie wanted to hold him, but their mother pointed out that she was Gilly's, and Sam could see her holding onto Aemon tightly. This was a new world, and Aemon was something that connected her to the old one.

"Dickon awaits you and Samwell in the Great Hall, m'lady."

Sam heard him mention his youngest siblings name, and that caused some worry to come back to him. He remembered that home wasn't just old friends, but that many people lived here that he would gladly never see again.

The guards flanked them as they walked, his mother at his side, Gilly and his sisters at his back.

The courtyard of Horn Hill was not a large one. The Tarlys were not a rich family, unlike the rest of the Reach. they found lumber and game as their main source of income. Their strength stemmed from their position and their reputation.

A few young boys were sparring with wooden swords. They turned to look at the party as it came past them. Another guard threw open the door to the Great Hall, and Sam whimpered slightly as he looked inside.

The roof was a high one, with thin windows that allowed some light to spill in and onto the cold, stone floor.

The few nobles of Horn Hill had gathered along the side. They were mostly knights that his father had left behind, their wives here with them.

Ser Ethan Hunt stood beneath the high seat of House Tarly, his helmet held underneath his right arm as he stood at attention.

On the other side of the steps was a thinner man, dressed in white and greys. That was Septon Karl, a cruel man that had acted as a puppet to Sam's father.

Dickon Tarly sat upon the seat, a young boy of twelve, dwarfed by the high back. His hair was brown, like their mother's, and his eyes were green, like their father's.

"Brother, I fear you should change your blacks. I can smell you from all the way up here."

That caused a laugh amongst the gathered nobles, and Sam flinched, looking to turn away. His mother, however, put her arm through his and helped him carry on.

A young girl was sat on a smaller seat next to Dickon. That was where Sam's mother sat when Randyll held court.

She was a timid looking girl, with brown hair down to her waist. She stared at her lap as Dickon joked, not laughing with the others.

"What has caused you to run so far from the Wall, brother? Did the snarks and grumkins prove too much for you? We heard of your restless dead. No wonder they won't stay gone if they have you killing them."

That caused another laugh, as well as a thin smile on the face of Karl.

"What do you think, court. Should I have my brother executed as a deserter and a craven?"

There were cheers at that remark, but still his mother forced him to go on, ignoring the jeers of the gathered men.

Sam saw another who stood silent through all of this. He was a tall, broad man, with dark hair and a thin beard upon his chin.

"I-I am no deserter, brother. I have been sent to-"

"I know why you are here, brother mine. You are here to hand over your bastard and your whore."

His mother let go of his arm here, stepping forward in a rage.

"Is that how you talk of guests, Dickon? Your father would be appalled! You should treat your brother with kindness and good spirits. He is braver than you think."

"But mother-"

"Lady Melessa is right."

The brown haired man stepped forward then. His voice was thick and sounded like he was singing. It sounded familiar to Sam.

"The Wall is no place for cowards, not according to Maester Aemon, a man that my brother feels inclined to trust the judgement of. I trust my brother. I would vouch for yours, too."

Dickon's face went red at this, and Sam thought that he was about to order Ser Ethan to attack the stranger. The man had such an easy confidence that it was unreal. There were not many men who would be able to talk to somebody like that in their own hall.

"Get yourself changed, Samwell Tarly. Then we will talk in my quarters, your Free Folk friend too, if she would do me the honour."

Gilly looked on at the man in shock, and Sam nodded, unable to find the words to repay the kindness that he had been shown today. This man had protected him from mockery.

His mother took him away before he could ask for a name. She left him with Daeron outside his old rooms, taking Gilly away to get her fitted into clothes more befitting.

"She is a pretty one, Sam. I thought you brothers of the Watch were supposed to be celibate. Starting to rebel against rules."

Daeron put his arm around Sam's shoulder as they stepped into his old chambers. They were of the same height, as well as the same age.

"The boy isn't mine Daeron. She is too pretty for me, I know."

"Nonsense, Sam. You are a fine man. She will be safe here, you know that. She will have me and your mother looking out for her. You trust us."

"I do."

"Good. Now lets get you some clothes on. Tarly colours for today, none of the black that you are in now. Makes you look too somber. "

Soon he was dressed in fineries that befitted the firsborn son of a Tarly lord. His cloak was green, as was his shirt. There was brown fur along his collar, representing the Tarly's traditions as hunters.

He had insisted that his cloak be clasped by a black sigil, representing his service to the Night's Watch, even if he couldn't wear his furs or his cloak.

Daeron escorted him up to the tower which the man had called his. Talla was waiting outside the door with Gilly on her arm. She was dressed now in a green and red dress that must have to others made her look beautiful. To Sam she looked different.

Talla and Daeron left them as they went in. Sam could hear them talking as they went down the steps. He wondered if something was going on between them.

The man from before was stood at the window, staring out at the expansive redwood forest. He turned to them as the door opened and closed. It was only now that Sam realised where he knew him from.

He wore a cloak now. It was green and pinned together by two golden roses that formed a broach at his neck.

This was Garlan Tyrell.

"Sam."

He offered his hand for him, and Sam took it cautiously.

"My lady."

He bowed his neck to Gilly, an action that caused her to blush and Sam to feel slightly jealous.

"It has been too long, Samwell. My brother told me that you had chosen to join the Watch. I suspect that the choice wasn't entirely your own."

Sam looked down at his feet then. Garlan sat down at the redoak desk that stood at the centre of the room.

"I am sure that you are both aware of the situation that we currenly find ourselves in. The Ironborn ravage our lands, and without the Redwyne navy we are unable to stop them. You will have seen their ships as you came to Oldtown."

"Since then they have set up a blockade on the city. Their ships are spread far and wide. Within the last few days we have heard of reavers striking at Old Oak and Blackcrown, and a man named Quellon Humble has made his seat at Brightwater."

"I need eyes and ears in Oldtown. I worry that the Ironborn are amassing to take the city. I have sent ravens to the High Tower, but I receive no replies. I would ask that you make your hom in the city. Send me ravens and reports."

"This is a dangerous thing I ask of you both. In return I promise you this. Your boy will be taken to Highgarden, where the finest wetnurse of the reach will look after him. He will be cared for by my brother and taught arms by me. When he is of age he will be given a seat and serve me at Brightwater. Do you agree?"

Gilly turned to look at Sam then. Her eyes looking at his pale skin as he stared at th ground. This was too dangerous. He couldn't do it. For Aemon, though. He looked up, into Gilly's eyes, and saw what she wanted. He turned back to Galrlan then.

He nodded.


	4. The Knight on the Ramparts

Brienne of Tarth stood on the ramparts of the Gates of the Moon, looking out at the lights of the Bloody Gate in the distance. It was a chill knight, and even under her armour she could feel herself shuddering.

The snow laced the ground, and the walkway that she was stood upon was icy and treacherous. The mountain passes were blocked now. She had only just got past.

She could remember the horrible face of her lady looking up at her as she swung.

"Sword!"

That had been what she had called out. The one in the yellow cloak had cut them down at that. She was safe, as were Podrick and Hyle.

The three of them had been sent on their way then, tasked with finding and murdering Ser Jaime Lannister in the name of justice.

He had told her that she would be followed so that they knew. Here, maybe, they were safe.

She had led Jaime Lannister across the width of the Riverlands, not once telling him of the threat that lay at their heels.

Sometimes she was worried that they had found them, but then she got them away from the clutches of the Hangwoman.

Her clammy face and her hideous wounds haunted Brienne's waking hours. She was always watching.

They had made it to Saltpans though, as she had hoped. There she had met with Quincy Cox, and they had talked.

She had shown him the warrant, the one signed by Tommen Baratheon, first of his name, in a childish scrawl, and he had given her everything that she had asked for. A new identity and a new face.

She was now Ser Brandon Cox, nephew to Ser Quincy of Saltpans.

The real Brandon had gone off to fight under the banner of House Stark, at the behest of the Tullys of Riverrun. He had never returned home to his family, nor had his body been discovered. He was likely dead at the bottom of a river, his body rotting away.

And now she was he. Or so everyone here believed.

Hyle Hunt had not needed a fake name. He was not a wanted man, and his presence would not raise suspicion. Lord Littlefinger had called for sellswords, and Hyle was without a patron.

Podrick had also come without an alias, with the chances of anyone caring for the identity of a shy squire being a low one.

Se Jaime, however. He was a different story.

He was Jammos Roote, a thirty five year old squire who had lost his sword hand as punishment for thieving from his local lord. He was her squire.

It was hard to hide a man with one hand, and Jaime was not a man easily hidden as it was. He was known throughout the Seven Kingdoms. Known for not just his skill with a sword or his quickness of tongue, but also for his beauty. His luscious gold locks and flashing smile would give him away.

She had not relished sheering him as they approached Saltpans, nor had she enjoyed cutting his face with her knife, scarring his perfect features. It had made him look battle hardened, but not the same. None would recognise him now.

They had been greeted at the Bloody Gate first.

Ser Donnel Waynwood was the knight now, and he was a friend of House Cox, or so he said. He had fought with Quincy's children in tourneys held in the town of Saltpans.

He had an honest face, if not a handsom one. His nose was too wide and his hair greasy, but he was strong and tall. He had laughed and drank with Hyle and Jaime, talked with them of war and combat. She had talked with his squire.

He had been a Frey by birth, although he had spent little of his life at the Twins.

His father had preferred Ironoaks, the seat of his wife's mother. His father had drowned when he had been a young boy, or so he had told her as he sipped at a glass of wine, the only one he had been allowed for the night.

They had been given bed that night too, although she had been forced to sleep closer to Hyle and Jaime than she ideally would have liked. The two had got on well since they had met. Too well for her liking.

The next day they had risen promptly on her instruction, although it had taken Jaime and Hyle too long to sober up, so they left much later than she had intended. The journey had been a longer one than she had thought, too.

The slog had been a long one, a traipse through rocks and snow, pushing on against the bitingly cold wind. Hyle had been forced to carry Podrick or else the boy may have drowned in the deep snow drifts.

Then they had reached the Gates.

They had been large things, made of wood and twisted metal. Above them flew the flags of the Arryns, the Baelishes and another, a flag she did not recognise. It had echoes of Royce, but different. She had not known it then.

She did now.

It had been the flag of the newly appointed Lord of the Gates, Nestor Royce. The man had been seated next to the young lord Arryn when she had been taken to the great hall of the castle.

The young boy was small and pale, as sickly as she had heard from afar. Sat to his left was lord Nestor, and on the boy's right was a man she recognised from the tales she had heard of him. That had been Lord Petyr Baelish.

He had been sat next to a pretty girl with dark hair. She had been told by their escort that she was Alayne Stone, Littlefinger's bastard.

She hardly saw her around, and only ever in the company of her friends, or under the watch of Littlefinger's hired swords. She was amongst them, of course, but was never given that duty. She wasn't sure why.

Her eyes turned away from the flickering lights so far away, and back to the sounds of merriment coming from the great hall of the Gates of the Moon. She could hear the bawdy voice of Morgarth calling out for more ale, and the sweet voice of the singer as he plucked at his harp.

He sung an old song, speaking of ancient kings in the Vale. He sang of how a Royce killed a Corbray and how a Corbray killed a Royce. He sang of a sorceress lying dead on the field of battle.

He had arrived here not long after she had, riding from Runestone as a message of good will to lord Robert, She turned away when she heard the Rains of Castamere start to be played.

The other knights had wanted to attend the feast so that they could drink or wench. She had volunteered to take the watch during the early night. It gave her time to be alone and think of what she had to do.

She had given an oath to lady Catelyn that she would find Sansa and Arya, but now lady Catelyn was following her. She had branded her a traitor and a turncloak. Maybe if she could find Sansa and give her to her mother then she would be forgiving of her and Jaime. Maybe she could fulfill her oath and be free of what Catelyn Stark had become.

She could feel her eyes on her even here, as if she watched from the heavens. The stars seemed to form her ravaged face as they looked down on Brienne. She shuddered at the thought.

Then she was distracted. She heard noise. The sound of footsteps down below her and a man singing.

"And so the rains weep o'er his hall, and no-one's there to here..."

The last words were left hanging in the air, as if waiting for an answer. The voice was not a pretty one, sneaky and thin. There was no echo from the sound, just silence left hanging.

"Would happily remove my own cock if it meant being as rich and as powerful as the Lannisters. Although not if it led to me being killed on the privy."

She recognised the cockshaw voice and arrogant attitude of the Mad Mouse then, pulling herself back against the rampart wall, wanting to avoid any conversation with this man.

He was a danger. He knew her. They had met once on the Kingsroad, when she had been with Ser Creighton and Ser Illifer. He had been looking for Sansa too, for the eunuch he had said. Varys. She had not expected to find him here.

He had been in the hall with the others. With Hyle and Pod and Jaime. She prayed that none of them were his companions.

"Would hardly be a fair trade, Shad. You hardly use your cock as it is."

Of course. It had to be him. Who better to accompany the Mad Mouse around than Jaime Lannister. She took a careful look over the walkway at the two of them, seeing that they had stopped a little in front of her. The air was cold. She could see their breaths coming off them in foggy mist.

"You're one to talk, Jammos. I hav yet to see you even lay your hand on a maiden since we got here."

"The single hand tends to put them off."

They had abandoned the golden replacement he had been given in the Riverlands. It had been too much of a giveaway.

"You have yet to tell me of how you came to be short a hand."

She had warned him not to talk with the man. He was onto them, she could tell from how he talked and the questions he asked.

"I was caught stealing a loaf of bread from the man of my distant cousin. He had the rest of my gang executed for treason. My second name meant that I lost my hand and was banished. The tale is of little interest."

"What was the name of the cousin?"

"I forget."

The Mad Mouse readjusted his footing then. He was as short as she remembered him being, shifty and dangerous.

"I served a Roote once. A knight. His name was Walton. Ser Walton Roote, that was it. He was an outlaw, fighting for a seat. He died."

"How?"

"I killed him. His rivals paid better coin."

He laughed at that, mocking the death of a man at his own hand. She remembered the conflict that she had felt when she killed Pyg and Timeon on Cracklaw Point. They had been bad men. The man that Shadrich had killed maybe not.

"How did you come to serve Brandon?"

Jaime also readjusted himself. He had been slouched against a wall first, not looking at his companion, preferring his fingernails or the sky. Now he looked at Shadrich, pulling himself away from the slouch.

"You ask me a lot of questions about my past?"

"Just interested how you came to be here, friend."

"Then tell me about yours. What brings a sellsword to the Vale."

"Its home, isn't it? The village I grew up in was ruled over by the Tolletts of Grey Glen, to the east of here. I was born there. My father died in the war, and my mother not long after from grief. I was left alone. There was a man, though, an old, wisened soldier who lived just out of our village on the rocky mountainside. He took me in."

"I visited him everyday, coming and going with food and supplies, bringing him news of the town. In return he showed me how to fight, how to use my strength to my advantage. Soon I was able to put him on the floor. It wasn't hard. He was old."

"Then one day I went to him. His hut was burned to the ground and he himself was gone. He had been dragged away by the Mountain Clans, or that was what they told me. I left then, to find someone who would take me in. I served in Gulltown for a while, but my talents were wasted there. I have been travelling ever since."

"So, now you should be satisfied. You have my life story, Jammos Roote. Tell me yours."

"There isn't much to tell, beyond that I grow weary. I should retire to my chambers."

Jaime's eyes flashed up to her as he prepared to leave, and Shadrich's followed them. She pulled herself against the wall, hoping that he hadn't noticed her spying on their conversation.

He began to sing again as he walked off.

"Who are you the proud lord said, that I should bow so low. Only a cat of a different coat..."

That was all she heard before his voice faded into the darkness. What more proof did she need that he knew.

Silence pulled back over her, but not an ominous one like before. This was serene and peaceful, like the calm before the storm. She let herself relax, feeling the chill come over her body. She stayed like this even when more sounds came. The singer came blow her, as did Byron, two girls on his arm. He always got the wenches. Poor Morgarth instead took the mead to bed.

Her serene guard was disrupted at last by others coming her way. They were not below the ramparts but on the walkway, however. There was laughter. It sounded like a female, although it wasn't overly high pitched.

"He couldn't keep his eyes off you, Mya. I could tell that he was imagining you without your clothes just from the look on his face. He wants you, dear."

"I could tell that he wanted me with no clothes because he is a man, Randa. I am married to the moutains."

"There are many things a man can do that a mountain cannot."

That was followed by laughter from one of the girls.

Then Myranda Royce and Mya Stone came into view, a third girl walking between them. Alayne Stone was silent for this conversation, her face flushed from the topic that her friends had chosen to discuss. Brienne couldn't blame her.

"Brave Ser Brandon!"

Myranda called out to her. Her arms were interlocked with Alayne's as they walked. The bastards were both much thinner of waist than Nestor Royce's daughter.

"I did not see you at the feast. Dear Alayne thought that you may be ill. She was quite worried for your wellbeing."

Alayne blushed at this, as did Brienne.

"I am quite well, my lady. I stand guard."

"Stand guard against what? The cold winds and chill air? My father robs you of time you could spend having fun to assuage his own cautiousness. Let us warm you up at least. What say you to a drink?"

She had never much liked the taste of mead or ale. It was too bitter. She had heard tale of a fruit drink that had similar effects in the Summer Isles, but had never tried any. Myranda had pulled a wineskin hidden beneath her skirts.

"My father's. He must never know."

She giggled with Alayne at that, and Mya smirked on. Brienne thought that these three had already drunken enough during that night.

"You should tell us tales of your knightly heroics before we drink. Let us see if your lies match up to those of our brave Sers Byron and Morgarth."

"I am afraid I have few tales to tell, my lady."

"Nonsense. My father says you fought for the wolf king. Was he as wild as they say? Is it true that he ate the flesh of those he killed? Were you with him at Oxcross, where he feasted on the remains of Stafford Lannister?"

Brienne had only met Robb Stark a few times, and even then only in passing. The boy had been just that: a boy. She had felt sympathy for him. He had lost a lot at such a young age.

"I fought at Oxcross, my lady. I saw no feasting on the dead."

Myranda's face dropped at that.

"Now, that is disappointing."

"Oh, I don't know, Randa. Those tales are ghastly. Why would you want them to be true?"

"Don't you like gruesome tales, Alayne?"

Alayne squeaked slightly as Mya tapped her on the back, and Myranda laughed. It was a loud laugh, confident and unfeminine.

"Anyway, my friends. We forget ourselves."

She poured each of them a small glass of wine, handing them out individually.

"Let us drink to Lord Arryn and his good health."

They each raised their glass, toasting the sickly lordling. Brienne hadn't seen the boy leave his chambers in days. She hoped that everything was alright with the child. He was too young to die.

She only vaguely remembered her own brother, but everytime she was young lord Robert he mind turned to Galladon. She had been five when he had died, drowned in one of the rockpools found on the beach below Evenfall. Father had cried for days.

He had told her that Galladon had been a good boy, swift and nimble, quick to laugh and quick to question. He had been skinnier and shorter than she had been at his age. He had never learned to fight. Sometimes she wondered what it would have been like if he had lived.

"What our lord needs is a woman to help him grow strong."

Mya's comment caused Alayne to gasp, visibly appalled at the notion.

"He is but a boy of eight!"

"And he may always be for eternity. He won't want to die without feeling a girl's lips on his. Maybe yours, Alayne. We all know that he wants you."

She had heard this rumour already, passed on by one of Robert's young squires to the cook, and then on to her and Littlefinger's other knights. no doubt Petyr Baelish already knew. if he hadn't at that time then Lothor Brune had certainly told him since.

That particular sellsword was a mystery to Brienne. She could work out the characters of Byron and Morgarth well enough, but he was quieter and more reserved, more loyal to their master too. Had he sworn an oath like she had to Catelyn Stark?

"We should be retiring to our chambers now. It would not do to have us three seen up here with such a gallant knight, Ser Brandon. I would not disapprove of you joining us later. How would you feel about that, Mya?"

"I would have no objection to having such a fine man find his way into my bed."

Alayne blushed at these comments, and Brienne did too, although thankfully her change of shade was hidden by her helmet and visor.

"Goodnight, brave knight."

Myranda was the first to leave, Mya laughing loudly as she followed her. Alayne tried to apologise through her facial expressions, but gave up and waled after them in resignation.

Myranda Royce was not someone to be trifled with, she knew that. She may seem just like a baudy widow, but Jaime had told her of the girl's reputation. She was like Shadrich. Not to be trusted.

The other two she couldn't make out. If Mya Stone had any alternate motives in her actions then they were hid expertly, and Alayne just seemed to be a girl out of place amongst her friends. She didn't think either of them was playing the game.

"Once the Royces were proud, with a crown and a throne and carried Lady Forlorn! Then the Andals did come and the crown it was stole, and Robar was slain on the morn! Those were the days when the Royces were kings...but now they are kings no more!"

The sound of drunken singing came to her from the other direction now.

She turned, and saw lord Nestor Royce stumbling along the ramparts, coming dangerously close to a fall that would surely kill him.

She rushed to his side, grabbing him for support and putting his right arm around her shoulder. Taking his weight was difficult, because he was a broad and muscled man with a barrel chest. He stopped singing when she grabbed him.

"Do you know the stories of the Vale of old, boy? The glories of House Royce? The way they held back the Andal invaders like no-one else could? We used to be a respected house, powerful even, we remember those days, boy, before upstarts like Petyr Baelish came along. We Remember."

She tried to steady him, or else he may well pull both of them down with him, if he were to fall. It was a long drop, and she didn't much fancy either of their chances.

"I was never taught the histories of the Vale, my lord."

That confused him. His brow furrowed and sweat glistened on his forehead, although it didn't run down the rest of his face.

"You're a Cox boy, aren't you? What is old Quincy teaching you if not the history of your ancestors. Why, your great grandmother herself was a Waynwood, and your grandmother was a Tollett. You should know these things."

She had forgotten that Brandon had Vale lineage.

"I was told some of the older stories by my wetnurse, my lord, but I fear that was long ago and I do not remember them."

"I could tell you them if you like. One day. Not now. I grow tired. Take me to my chambers, boy. I do not trust myself not to fall."

She obliged him willingly. She barely knew the man, but she didn't want him to fall. He seemed kind enough most of the time, especially to young lord Robert.

The lord's chamber was at the top of one of the tallest towers of the main stronghold. Nestor seemed to doze off at one point during the climb, resting his head on the cold, steel pauldron of her armour. this made it harder to climb, as the man was very heavy. She somehow managed to pull him up, however, and into his chambers.

Lord Nestor was a widower, so he slept alone. His room was sparsely furnished. There was a steel sword hung over a small fireplace, and two wooden chairs positioned opposite from one another at a table.

The bed was wooden and uncomfortable, yet he almost fell down upon it, eager for rest. She was worried it would break under his weight, but it held well enough.

She turned to leave him then and got all the way to the door before he called her back.

"Girl, don't go to the gates. Send the maiden and the pig. Protect the boy."

That was all, and after that he dropped off into a sleep that no man could wake him from.

What had he meant by the maiden and the pig? What gates had he been warning her against going to? Who was the boy that he was so anxious for her to protect? And had he just called her girl?


	5. The King Beyond the Wall

He stood by the precipice of the Gorge, looking out over the Bridge of Skulls to the lights of the Shadow Tower that stood out in the black of night.

The crows were up later than usual, running around their stone castles with letters and fires. Instead of being there he was camped here, surrounded by the cold and the snow, the Free Folk army asleep behind him.

Beneath him was a steep drop, to where jagged rocks stuck up towards the sky, and pools of water gathered. All he could see now was darkness.

He had been sent north by Lord Crow not too long ago. A scouting mission he had called it. He had taken his son and his best men with him, but they had found nothing waiting beyond the Wall. There had been none of the restless dead looking for him.

Toregg had set up their camp, acting as a scout ahead of the rest of the party. They had stayed there upon his recommendation for days on end, not wanting to go any further north for risk of the cold and the snow.

He had seen want the cold could do. He had experienced the devastation that this winter had brought. His own son...

Torwynd had never been much of a fighter, not like his brothers. He had been a good soon, though. He hadn't deserved what had become of him.

Now the Lord Crow had gone too, or so the Weeper's men whispered to him. He had been killed by an Other, some said, and dragged back off to the lands beyond. Others still told of a giant that had crushed him in his hands and eaten him for breakfast.

And others whispered darker rumours still. They said that Lord Crow had been betrayed by his own men, murdered for his humanity in sparing those of the Free Folk.

He had liked the boy, even if he had turned on them. He had put Mance out of his misery. No man deserved to be murdered by their own brothers, or their father.

He turned and she was stood there, dressed all in white as she always was. It caused her to stand out against the darkness that surrounded them. If it was light then she may have blended in with the snow.

Her blonde hair fell long down her sides and her eyes looked at him with some intensity. She was a beautiful woman, that was true, but she was also deadly. He knew that she kept knives hidden under her cloak, to geld any man that should touch her.

"Do you think of him?"

Val asked, her voice soft.

"Do I think o' who? Mance? Lord Crow? I think o' both. You hear the rumours too, don't ya? You hear what they did to him?"

She inclined her head, looking towards the sparkling snow that had settled on the ground.

"Those crows let our people through because o' him. Women and children lie beyond the Wall. They will be butchered, Val. Nothing me or Lord Crow or Mance can do o' it now."

He pushed past her, seeking to return to the camp. He had lost two sons to the crows and to the cold. One other had been with Lord Crow. He had no news of him.

"There is a way. He isn't dead, Tormund. He calls for you."

He turned to her, his eyes cutting behind hers as she talked.

"Mance lives. I know it to be true. I saw him burn at the hands of the woman in red, but now I feel my sister's husband once more."

"Many men watched him burn. How did he have that fate and live. You tell me lies, woman."

"I knew Mance, Tormund. I knew his aura and I knew his person. He was my sister's husband, that is true. But I knew the man. Lord Crow is dead and Mance lives. I tell you the truth."

"How does Mance live then? Where is he? Why did he no' come to save his people?"

"I do not know. He was in danger many nights ago. I heard him call. He still lives."

"Who else knows?"

"No-one save Dalla knew Mance as well as I. Maybe others know, but none here."

"Good. I hope what you speak is truth. Mance was a cunning man. I do not doubt he may live. I doubt that we will if we stay here fo' the winter."

"The great cold comes, Tormund. The Weeper is not the man to save us from it."

She turned away from him then, taking up his place at the side of the Gorge, looking out at the Shadow Tower in the distance. He looked at her for a few seconds longer before turning away and returning to his family.

It had been her that had come to him when they were camped. She had told him of dark rumours. She had told him of concealed knives and shadows at the crow's castle. He had not known that this was what she had meant.

She had been accompanied by a dead crow. A man dressed all in black, but with the stench of death upon him. His face had been concealed from view, but his hands had been thick from the congealed blood. He had scared even Toregg.

The dead one had left soon after, giving her to Tormund's protection. They had talked late into the night, and she had insisted that they had no other choice than coming here. She could be very persuasive when she wanted to be, and she was not an enemy that Tormund desired.

South of the Wall they called her princess. She was no royalty, and he would never bend the knee to her as his queen. But she saw things, as had her sister. That was why Mance had married her.

Dalla, she had been called. Smaller than Val, less stable and frailer. Mance had loved her, though, and she had given him a son. The boy had probably been murdered by the black crows by now.

His own son was all he had left here. Dormund and Torwynd were dead, both burned and gone. The winter had taken their mother early. He had spared her body from being brought against him, at least.

He lay near Toregg to sleep, but it was restless. All his dreams were full of a white crow and Torwynd, laughing together in Ruddy Hall.

He was shaken awake the next day, Toregg stood over him, smiling down at his father with his teeth all showing.

"Late night, father? No woman in your bed?"

Tormund cracked his neck slightly as he stood up, stretching his arms out to get blood into his muscles.

"Seems like there's no women in this entire blasted camp. All the Weeper's girls look like filth. Not fit to be killed by your mother's axe."

"Aye, I agree. Have to make do where we can, though, eh? Don't want my member falling off, do I?"

He laughed then, clapping his father on the back. The boy was Tormund's pride and joy. He was more than a foot taller than his father and twice as strong. He would make a fine chieftain one day.

"The Weeper sent me to wake you. A crow lord crosses t' Gorge with some men. Under the banner of peace, he says."

"I have yet to meet a crow who wants peace over blood. We will see what he wants. It isn't..."

Toregg shook his head then, a look of sadness crossing onto his own face.

"We may get some answers from this crow then."

He pulled his largest axe from out of the ground, where it had been buried in place. He carried it in his right hand as he strode through the camp with a purpose.

The heads of the gathered Free Folk barely turned onto him. Most of these men had come to Mance with the Weeper, others were remnants of Alfyn's and Harma's men, searching desperately for a leader now that theirs had gone.

Three men already stood at the edge of the Bridge of Skulls. A group of crows stood in the middle, waiting to meet on neutral ground.

The Weeper stood at the centre of the gathered Free Folk leaders. He was smaller than all the others, his long blonde hair spilling down the back of his head. He was pale also, looking nothing like the fearsome fighter he was.

He cared little for the man, and he would have thrown him out into the cold had he been his son, but he had built up a hoard.

With him was Alfyn's oldest son, Crowl Crowkiller, and the other was the imposing figure of Ygon Oldfather, one of the men who had accompanied him here.

"You wake me early, Weeper. I hope fo' your sake it is worth it."

"You sleep too long anyway, Tormund. I have been up since the crack of dawn training and making love."

"Very poorly, I assume."

There was an amused look on Ygon's face at this, although Crowl remained as stony faced as his father always had been. The Crowkiller clan just couldn't take a joke.

"You better stay quiet as I talk, Giantsbane. I am in charge. Not you. This is not Mance's camp."

"Aye. Mance's camp had better women."

The Weeper's voice was thin and rasping, the sound of a child that was trying to come across as a threat to a fully grown man. He looked at Tormund, his eyes trying to convey menace, but they were too watery to make him look like any sort of a threat.

"Are we going forward or not?"

That was the Crowkiller boy, his voice as dull as his father's.

The Weeper didn't meet that with a response, instead he started to move forward. All three of them were taller than their self nominated leader, and whilst Crowl tried to stay behind, Tormund and Ygon pushed on, leaving their two companions behind as they walked towards the centre.

Ygon was a boistorous man when he was supplied with both whores and mead. He had been cut off from both since they had gone north, and it had caused the man to drop.

Tormund had a long time to inspect the gathered crows before the other two arrived.

One was taller than him and as strong as an ox. He looked about as stupid as one, too. He had his muscled arms crossed in front of him.

The next was shorter and dressed in grey, not black like crows did usually. He had a thin face with a pointed black beard.

On the left stood another. This one was short and ugly, his nose more like a pig's than a crow's beak.

The man stood in the centre appeared to be their leader. He was older, with a beard that was long and white. His eyes were still a keen light blue, however, and there was a thin smile on his face, whilst the other men all looked stern.

The Weeper arrived then, pushing past Ygon to get to the front.

"Have you reconsidered my offer, crow?"

"Your last offer was to let you pass or you would kill all my men. I still decline."

The old man spoke in a courteous way. This one was a highborn kneeler.

"Then why have you called me out of my bed, crow. Do you want me to kill you here? I caught three of your crow friends the other week. I returned their heads to your commander. Did he enjoy my gift?"

"Those three men were good and true. Maybe we should take the heads of your companions as recompense."

That was the man dressed in grey. His hand moved to his sword.

"I could take all four of you by myself. One Weeper is worth ten crows. And I have three hundred men as bloodthirsty as me at my back. I will see you dead."

"Then I invite you to come and try."

The old man started to turn then, and Tormund knew he had to step forward.

"You are Denys Mallister, crow? The commander o' the Shadow Tower? I talked with Lord Crow o' you. He said you were a good man."

The old man turned back to him then, a smile on his face but sadness visible in his lips and his eyes.

"It honours me that he spoke as such. I cannot say that I agreed with all his actions..."

Ygon stepped forward too then.

"You speak of him as past. Is it true? Is Lord Crow dead?"

The old man nodded, and the ugly boy sniffled.

"How did he die, crow?"

"I cannot say. I have not been told."

"You heard what we have heard? Knives in the dark?"

The Weeper stepped forward then.

"Silence, Giantsbane. Do not talk to the crow as if he was your oldest friend. He is the enemy. He refuses to let us pass. He must die."

In his head he hoped that the Old Gods spare any man who followed this child into battle. The Weeper may be ruthless, but he was no doubt compensating for something.

"We need passage 'fore the cold comes. You have failed to get us passage. Let me talk with the crow."

He looked like he was going to complain further, but a look from Ygon forced him to back down.

"We need passage. We cannot stay where we are."

"I do not have that authority."

"Tell me, crow. Lord Snow is dead, so who is King Crow?"

"There have been no elections."

"You hope to be King Crow?"

"I will put my name forward."

"Then whose authority is stopping you from letting my men past, crow? You have seen what is becoming of the dead? The way that they rise? There is an army of the Free Folk right outside your castle. Do you want that crossing this bridge when the winter colds claim them? Let me tell you, crow, it is harder to kill a man that refuses to stay dead."

He could see the shiver that went through the four of them. The ugly small one looked like he had shit himself at the thought. He could taste their fear.

"I am a brother of the Night's Watch. I cannot let raiders and rapers through to ravage the lands south of the Wall. Not people like him."

Tormund knew who he meant, and he knew what he had to do to save his people.

"Very well."

He turned on the Weeper then, grabbing him by the scruff of his wolfskin cloak. Crowl moved forward to stop him, but Ygon blocked him off. The Weeper thrashed and flailed as he was hauled into the air. He was not a heavy man, and it took Tormund only one throw to send him plummeting off the side of the bridge. His screams were whipped away by the wind.

"We can negotiate now?"

The four black crows looked on in horror, the commander of them staring at the place that the Weeper had fallen from. They didn't have the balls to do what was right, these crows. They were all kneelers at heart.

Soon they were talking again, although Crowl returned to camp before they had finished. He had made an enemy of he Crowkiller, although this one was not as brave as his father, and with a smaller member too, most likely.

The crows would leave soon after that, a deal reached. He stayed put where he was stood, staring at the jagged rocks and pools of water underneath the bridge. He couldn't see the Weeper's body. Ygon stayed with him.

"You trust the crows, Tormund?"

"No. I trust myself. I trusted Mance and I trusted Lord Snow. It seems I am wrong usually. I need to go south."

"Nothing lies south fo' the likes o' us, Tormund. The south is a place fo' kneelers and fo' death. No man of the Free Folk has ever found happiness in the south, save fo' Bael."

"Aye, maybe so. It is a bard that I look fo'. I must go south."

Tormund had known Ygon for almost all his life. He had been known as the Oldfather even when Tormund had been a nipper. He trusted him more than most.

"Well, my people will follow you, Tormund. Fo' those o' the Weeper and the Crowkiller I do no' speak."

"If they stay here then they are fools. It is no' my job to save fools."

They started to travel back to the camp then, the crunch of the snow beneath their boots being the only sound to break the silence.

There was already a group gathering at the end of the bridge. He could see Toregg stood at the back, the Crowkiller stood nearby to him, silently brooding.

One of the Weeper's men stood at the centre. Tormund didn't know his name but he recognised him. He very rarely left his master's side.

"Where is he? Where is the Weeping Man?"

"Dead."

His response was simple. He tried to walk past the crowd before more questions could be asked.

"Did the crows kill him? We shall make them pay dearly for this treachery. Sneaky crows using the banner of peace to kill a good man."

Tormund stopped then, slowly turning to the man who had spoken. He called him a man, but he was little more than a boy, as small and weedy as his master had been, as pale too.

"You mus' be as much a fool as him if you think he was a good man, boy. The crows did not kill him. I took him and threw him from the bridge like a feather in the wind. He is dead. Best no' ask any more questions or maybe you will join him."

He turned then to the others that had gathered there.

"The crows have agreed to let us pass their castle. Any men who don't want to find themselves dead mus' gather here tonight. I lead you across. Any who wish to stay may do so. Protecting fools is not my job."

He left them then, muttering under their breath about murder and betrayal. Most of the men here had idolised the Weeper. He had made himself many enemies in killing him.

Toregg did not have to try hard to keep pace with his father, his long strides matching the shorter ones of Tormund.

"Is it true? Did you throw the Weeper from the bridge?"

"Aye, boy, I did."

"You have not gained us any friends by doing that, father."

"I realise that, boy. You did no' hear the way he talked to the crows. They would never have let us pass whilst he lived. I killed him because I had to. Send word to Soren and Harle. We may have need of their swords if the Weeper's men turn on us."

"Aye, father."

The boy left him then, and Tormund pushed on through the snow, reaching his tanned hide tent soon enough. He took his axe in with him, knowing that he may need it at quick notice.

He had not expected to find her in his tent, but in a weird way he had.

Val stood at the centre, dressed in the same all white clothes that she had worn the night before.

"I heard that you have got us past, Tormund. I thank you. The cold is coming, or so I hear whispered on the wind."

"Your whispers are none o' my concern. I want to find my son and find Mance."

"I will come with you on this mission."

"No, you will no'. I could be heading to dangerous places, fighting armoured kneelers with sharp swords. What will you do then?"

"You think I am a weak woman, Tormund? Do you forget who I am and what I have done?"

He hesitated then, backing down.

"Aye, I remember."

"Good. When do we leave?"

"Nightfall. The Weeper is dead."

"I know."

He was not surprised.

"Word travels fast."

"Last night I saw a body, lying in a pool of blood that it had wept from empty eyes. I knew who it was and who had killed them."

"You could have told me."

"You needed to make the choice for yourself."

He grew tired of her talking about prophecy and magic. He wanted to fight or fuck, and there was nothing to fuck here.

"I am going to see the Crowkiller. Find out if he is fool or not."

"Does he frighten you?"

"He is half craven."

"His father was a brave man."

"Aye, Alfyn was brave. He is also dead. Non o' us are our father. Not me, not you, not Crowkiller. Alfyn fucked anything that moved with his small member. I hear that his son is no' much different, except more cowardly and smaller where it counts."

"You shouldn't underestimate your foes. Mance never did."

"Aye, and look where that got him. I do no' intend to be burned by a witch. That is what is different about me and Mance."

"You followed him once."

"Aye, I thought he was the man to lead us through the winter that is coming. He wasn't. No man can stand up to what is coming. Hopefully the Crowkiller is wise enough to see that."

He left her then, looking at his back as he left her. There was something about that woman that unnerved him. She was pretty enough, aye, but she had a sense of foreboding.

Crowl Crowkiller sat with his brothers outside their tent. He was the oldest of the three, although they all looked the same to Tormund. Lanky slimy bastards that would sooner run from a fight than stand their ground. It was no wonder that all three had survived the battle under the Wall.

The middle brother was Alfyn, named for his father. He had served as one of Mance's guards during the battle. He was even more craven than his older brother. He had almost shat himself when the armoured knights came in.

The youngest of them was still a boy, only seven years old.

"Crowkillers. I come in peace."

Crowl looked up at him, his piercing blue eyes trained on him.

"I know why you are here, Talltalker."

"Aye, I'm sure you do. May I sit?"

Crowl indicated that he could take the place next to him with a nod of the head.

"Would you like meat or mead, Talltalker?"

He said this as he took a bite from the spitroasted animal leg that he was holding. It smelled good, cooked and salted.

"Aye, both."

Crowl gestured to his middle brother, who sighed and went off to fetch what was needed.

"You need my men. You want me to cross the bridge at your side. I hear that Soren and the Huntsman have already agreed to follow you, the Oldfather as well. I would be a fool to not pass south."

"Aye, agreed. Only fools will stay here."

"The Weeping Man would have stayed. Did you think him a fool? The Mance trusted him."

"Mance kept him as far away as possible. The Weeper would have killed us all if I had allowed him to live. His death made the crows let us pass."

"And yet I fear that death has not yet finished it's cruel work here, Talltalker. Is the Weeping Man dead forever, or will he return? I wonder if he will remember your face if he does."

"He can come have another go at me, if he likes. I will kill him again, and again, and again."

Alfyn returned then, a tankard of mead and a leg of meat ready for him.

"Thank you, boy. Sit and tell me something. Does death scare you?"

The boy looked uncertain for a minute. He shook his head.

"Then you are a fool. Do you wish to stay here when we leave?"

Tormund bit down into the meat then, as he waited for an answer. The flesh was soft and well cooked, flavoured with salt and herbs. The mead tasted like pigswill, but it was better than anything he had drunk in a while.

"I..I will leave."

"You don't sound very sure o' it, lad. I am glad you are less o' a fool than your brother."

Crowl turned to him then.

"I will be by your side as you cross, Talltalker. That doesn't mean I agree with the murder of your friends and allies."

Tormund lowered the meat then, staring into the Crowkiller's eyes.

"This is war. Many of my allies and friends have died already. The Weeper wasn't one of them. He is dead. Grow some balls and get over it."

He rose then, throwing the empty tankard to the ground.

"I will see you later. Bring your swords. We may have use of them."

Tormund spent the rest of the afternoon in his tent, preparing himself for what may be coming. Soon it was time, and Toregg came to him in silence. He knew what was happening.

"Do you hear any news? Any plans?"

His son shook his head sullenly.

Tormund made his way through the eerily quiet camp. At the edge of the bridge was gathered most of the men that had made up the camp. Some jeered and brandished swords at him as he went past, others bent their heads in respect.

Ygon, Crowl, Soren and Harle were stood at the bridge's start, looking back at the camp. Tormund stopped in front of them and turned as well. A soft wind whipped at his hair, cold and chilling.

"Today I leave."

His voice was a bellow.

"I thought that Mance was the man to lead us. I was wrong. I thought Lord Crow was the man to save us. I was wrong."

A voice called out from the crowd.

"Soun's to me like you're jus' always wrong."

That got a laugh, but Tormund silenced them with a glare.

"We can save ourselves today. We can preserve our name and our families. I urge you to cross that bridge if you want to live."

There was silence for a few seconds, and Tormund was worried that no-one would step forward. Then came Toregg, inclining his head to his father as he passed the jeering crowd and moved onto the bridge and towards the Shadow Tower.

He was followed by more. The Crowkiller boys, Alfyn holding the hand of his younger brother. Soren's two sons, Sigyrn and Sigfryd. Then Val, dressed all in white again. It was her movement that led others to follow, crossing by the dozens.

Soon it was him, stood in front of his chieftains, and stood opposite the boy from earlier. The Weeper's boy.

He had gathered a large number of the Free Folk behind him. Tormund inclined his head to them and turned towards the bridge.

If they wanted to stay then they could. He was leaving.

They would die like the fools they were.


	6. The Fist of R'hllor

The Iron Captain watched from the deck as his ship slowly pulled through the carnage of the battle that had just taken place.

Everywhere he looked he saw wood floating, bloated corpses carried on the tide, or the flags of Yunkai, Ghis and Greyjoy being pulled under the waves to join their captains and their crew.

They had lost _Headless Jeyne_ and _Lord Dagon_ to their enemies, but many more had fallen before them.

He had sent the Myrish ships in first, _Shrike_ and an assortment of other, lesser vessels. They had been lead by _Noble Lady_ , captianed by Wufe One-Ear. The rest of the Iron Fleet had followed soon after them.

They had smashed the Yunkaii on their right flank, an attack led by Ragnor Pyke on the _Forlorn Hope_. That had been another captured ship, he remembered, taken from the Shield Islands that he had taken for his brother.

Euron. He had taken his wife, taken his crown and taken his glory. Now he expected him to sail around the world to fetch him a bride? He was a fool.

The dragon queen would be his, and the seastone chair would follow her. He was Victarion Greyjoy, the Iron Captain and the Breaker of Men.

Euron could have his bastards and his warlocks. He would still not win, for Victarion had what he needed to overthrow his brother.

"The will of R'hllor has given you victory, my captain."

The priest stood behind him, having made a silent approach. He was dressed in the black and gold cloaks that had been made for him. His face was sombre, not rejoicing in the glory of a battle won like the other men.

"He has rewarded me for my faith, Dark Flame. I will give him what he seeks in return tonight."

"You would light the fire?"

"I would."

Moqorro inclined his head then, moving away, as silently as he had approached. Another man took his place.

Tom Tidewood was not as large as other men aboard the _Iron Victory_ , but Victarion had picked him out especially as a replacement for Nute. His skill with an axe had been legend on the Isles.

He had served the Drumm before, or so he thought, acting as a captain and a guard. He was the grandson of a thrall, no doubt.

"What brings you to me, Tidewood? What news?"

The boy was nervous. The Dark Flame scared him, like he did the rest of the crew. None of them had seen the light in the fires.

"Lord captain, Ragnor reports that he has taken a number of prisoners. Mostly Ghiscari freemen but.."

"But what, boy?"

"He has also taken two ships tha' claim to be from Qarth, lord captain. They offer ransom in return for their release."

"Who would they be ransomed to?"

"Himsel'"

"He is Ragnor's prisoner. What concern is it of mine?"

"The prisoner demands to speak with you."

"Then I will see him later. Have Ragnor remove one of his hands with a blunt axe. He is a prisoner. He demands nothing from Ironborn."

"Yes, lord captain."

Tidewood scurried away then, no doubt wanting to escape the ever watchful eye of Moqorro Dark Flame. That was what they called him on deck, away from his eyes and ears.

The ship pulled past more wreckage then. The other captains would be pulling survivors from the water and offering them the choice. Join the crew or be shown the watery depths. Most men would take the first choice.

His ship was not involved in this, however. He was heading to port. He was heading to meet the most beautiful woman in the entirety of the world to make her his queen.

The ship pulled up smoothly, as you would expect from the vessel captained by the finest naval man in the world.

He departed the planks for the stone of solid ground. Tidewood and Steffar Stammerer would come with him into the city, acting as an honour guard. Ideally he would have taken the Pyke brothers, but both were cleaning up the bay.

Tom was shorter and leaner of frame than most ironborn fighters. He wore no weapons visibly, but underneath his clothes were concealed two throwing axes and a dagger, with which he was deadly.

Steffar was taller and bulkier. He wasn't as strong as either of the Pykes, but he was quicker than both. He carried two shortswords strapped at his waist, and was quick enough to be deadly when wielding them both together.

He left the Dark Flame on the boat, not wanting to take him to the places he was going.

"Let us find ourselves a woman each, boys."

Tom grinned at this, and Steffar laughed. He walked at the centre of the trio as they entered the city, Tidewood stood on his right, Steffar on the left.

The crowds of the city parted before them, outfitted in their armour and still smelling of the sweat of battle. It wasn't long before they found themselves a drinking hole with good enough women to go for the Ironborn.

He seated himself at a table, his companions alongside him. Steffar found himself a girl quick enough, Tom took longer, but soon both had whores to their pleasure, seated in their laps and whispering suggestively into their ears. Victarion waited.

Whores came to him to try and earn coin, but they were pushed away. He was a king, and he would take nothing but the best. He drank, and he waited. Eventually the bartender came across.

"Sir, I cannot help but see that you reject women."

His knowledge of the common tongue was butchered, but he spoke it over Ghiscari. Victarion and his companions were clearly foreigners.

"Do you not like what you see? Is there anything I can do-"

"Do you have a daughter?"

"Y-yes, Sir, but I don't see-"

"Then I will have her. You will be paid handsomely after I am done."

"I have to object, sir."

Tom stood then. He was half the size of the bartender, but his face contorted into a cruel scowl and he reached for his knife.

"The cap'ain said he would 'ave your daugh'er. Go fetch 'er, or I will 'ave to."

Tom sat down as the man scurried away, returning his attentions back to the girl that he had found for himself.

Suddenly a shadow covered them, and Victarion went for his sword, assuming the bartender had come back with help. He hadn't, and the man who sat before them was not Ghiscari.

He was pale skinned with blue-green eyes and hair the colour of sand. Tom moved for his dagger when the man sat, but Victarion moved for him to stop.

"What makes you think you can sit here, boy."

There was a smile on the man's face, one of an easy confidence. He didn't seem scared coming up against three hardened Ironborn soldiers.

"The seat was empty. I took it. Is there any crime against that, captain?"

"You know who I am?"

"I know what you have done. The entire fleet of Yunkai, Ghis and Qarth destroyed at your hand. No small feat, captain. I saw your flags, too. The golden kraken of the Greyjoys. That means you must be Victarion, here to do the dirty work for your brother, I would suspect."

Tom did get his knife out at that, and Steffar went for his swords.

"I mean no offense, captain. I heard that Euron Crow's Eye had been named king, so I assumed you were here in his name. You have always served your older brothers with loyalty, if memory serves."

"The Captain of the Iron Fleet serves no man."

Tom Tidewood looked ready to jump across the table at the stranger.

"Well, surely he must. Is the captain of the Iron Fleet not just the puppy dog of the king of the Isles?"

"Watch your t-t-tongue, boy."

"Is this really the best that the legendary Victarion Greyjoy could do? A boy who looks no older than a child and a stutterer? The Iron Fleet must really have gone to the dogs."

"I think if I let you test the steel of my men then you would find them harder to beat than you think. To who do I have the displeasure of talking?"

"Ser Gerris Drinkwater of Dorne."

"You are a long way from home."

"As are you, captain."

"I think I killed a Dornishman once."

He left the words hanging there, as if there was more to the story. There wasn't.

"Then you are one among few. Many men try to kill us, and very few succeed. I suspect that I know why you are here, captain. You seek the Mother of Dragons, Queen of Meereen, the Unburnt and the Breaker of Chains."

"That I do."

Gerris Drinkwater glared at his tankard as the words came from his mouth.

"Then I would recommend turning yourself around and finding your way home, captain. There is nothing for you here. The queen is gone, and with it her dragons and the heart of this city."

"Daenerys Targaryen is not here?"

"She has fled, upon the back of one of her mighty creatures."

"Then who rules?"

"Ser Barristan Selmy, the Queen's Hand."

He spat the name out, as if he was talking of something vile. There was no love lost between this man and Barristan the Bold, it seemed.

Another man came over then, much taller than his dornish companion. He was bald, with thicker arms and legs. This was a warrior, moreso than his friend.

"You making yourself new friends, Drink? We should not be staying here long. Now that your new friend has lifted the naval blockade we can finally begin our journey home."

"You will find no free ships willing to take you to Westeros."

"I am not worried. The white knight has promised us one of yours."

Victarion was confused at this. Who was Barristan Selmy to command him to give up his ships? He was nobodies dog, and he would not be treated as such.

"Then you can take one of the small Myrish trade boats we picked up. I have no further need for them and they are stripped of cargo."

The bald one nodded to him gratefully, before leaving. His companions stayed a for a few more moments.

"A word of advice, captain. Do not trust the dragon bitch or her white knight. They are both treacherous snakes, and when you aren't looking they will tear the life from everything that you care about without so much as a second thought. They are more heartless than you can imagine."

"I have known loss and had what I loved taken from me before. I will not let these two take anything."

Gerris looked down at his tankard once more, before following the bald one out of the door. His eyes had been morose, as if he was remembering something that caused him sadness. Knights were always too emotional. They were not brave enough to be Ironborn.

It was not long after that when the bartender brought out the girl he had asked for.

Her skin was dark amber, with soft brown eyes. Her brown curled hair fell to her waist. She wore a light blue robe, but underneath it he could make out the shape of her breasts. They were small things, but firm. The girl was young, little over eighteen years of age. The bartender instictively made to stop him as he moved to grab her, but one look from Tom stopped him.

The girl was nervous at first, shy and not willing to play. When he sat her on his lap he could feel his cock harden. She could feel it too, as her face began to blush.

"I'm taking you upstairs, girl."

She nodded anxiously, not speaking the common tongue.

She took her to the first free room. It was well decorated, with a bed that supported plump pillows. Instead he bend her over the desk, forcing her face down into the wood with his right hand, and tearing away the robe with his left.

"Have you ever been taken by a man, girl?"

She shook her head, not resisting his strength.

He fucked her then, pumping his cock inside her until his seed was spent. She would be lucky if it caught. Not every woman got to father a bastard Greyjoy.

He left her in that room. She was crying from the shame and the pain.

Steffar was gone when he reached the tavern's main room, no doubt off in one of the upstairs rooms fucking his girl. Tom was stood with the bartender, shouting in his face. Two men dressed in plain uniform with spiked caps. One of them had one spike, the other three.

"You call your fucking spiked solider on us, af'er all we did? We saved your fucking city, mate. Now all we wan' is some girls and this is 'ow you thank us."

"Mazēdis ñuha tala. kostilus dohaeragon nyke."

"And now you're going to talk in your fancy fucking language so I don't know wha' the fuck you are saying."

The armoured man with three spikes stepped forward then.

"Calm down, sir. You member of men who burn ships? Who your captain?"

Victarion stepped forward then, and the bartender shied away at the sight.

"That would be me, boy. Do you have a problem with the actions of me or my men?"

The boy was short and stocky, with a serious face and solemn eyes. This must be one of the eunuchs that they were so proud of around here. If a man didn't have a cock then Victarion didn't trust him.

"My name Grey Worm, commander of Unsullied. I been sent to bring you to the Queen's Hand, Ser-"

"Barristan Selmy, yes I know who he is. Maybe he calls me to tell me of my ships that he is giving over to Dornishmen."

This comment confused the boy, who's face twisted into one of thought.

"I think he calls to celebrate. You help Meereen much today."

"Aye, that we have, boy."

He turned to Tidewood.

"Send for the Pykes to meet me at their Great Pyramid. You are in charge of counting all we have won."

He then turned to the bartender patting him on the back as if he was a brother in arms.

"And you, tell my other man he is to return to the docks when he is done. Send your daughter and three of your finest girls with him, to entertain my men. If I find that she didn't go, then your head is mine."

He left them then, escorted by the eunuchs that Barristan Selmy had sent down to fetch him. They were both of them young, but the one called Grey Worm commanded respect on the streets of the city. Crowds parted when he called out to them to do so. 

The mighty pyramids of Meereen towered over them as they walked through the city. They were taller than even the highest towers of Pyke or Ten Towers. one they passed was pink and blue, another green and yellow, another yellow and blue.

The largest of them all stood at the centre of the city. The base was made of all kinds of colours, although he didn't stop to admire the designs.

Longwater and Ragnor Pyke were already waiting for the outside the entrance. They fell into line behind him as they walked in.

The hall was cooler and dimmer, shielding from the heat of the Meereenese sun. He was glad for it.

He wasn't glad for the climb up many flights of stairs.

It tired him, and Ragnor was panting by the time they reached the top. The two eunuchs stayed exactly how they had before, however, with the same breathing pattern, and no sweat even forming on their brows.

One of them stayed behind, standing at the top of the stairs. The one that had called himself Grey Worm led them through.

He couldn't smell anything in the pyramid. There was nothing. The air was free of heat and of odour.

Grey Worm led them through two more passages before they reached the audience chamber.

It was a large cool place, full of air and with a high ceiling. Gathered around the side of the room were many men wearing coloured dresses. Stood at the top of the central dias was a man in white enamelled armour, his white cloak falling behind him.

This was the legendary Ser Barristan Selmy.

He was disappointed. The man was old and his face was lined. He had heard tales of the man, but he was surely past any best that he had ever achieved.

The knight stepped towards him.

"Lord Captain. I did not expect to see you here. We owe you a great debt of thanks for lifting the naval blockade. What is it that you seek?"

"You to explain to me what right you have handing my ships over to two Dornish knights. I am the captain of my fleet, Selmy. Not you."

That caused a look of confusion to appear on the old man's face, followed by shock and then anger. He turned to one of the gathered men, a bald man with a large nose and yellowing skin.

"Find me Drinkwater and Yronwood. Go to the docks and ask any of the ships there whether they have taken on two Dornishmen this day. Take ten of the Brazen Beasts with you."

The bald man bowed his head slightly before hurrying from the room. Barristan returned his attention back to him as he did so.

"I assume you did not climb all these stairs to discuss one missing ship with me. What is it that brings the Ironborn warriors so far from their homes."

"Your queen's cunt."

Barristan's face sharpened then, going harder at the bluntness of the comment. There was an intake of breath from the gathered men around the room.

"The queen is not here-"

"I will wait for her. When she returns I will marry her and give her my seed. I will be her king, and she will command all the seas."

"Her grace is married."

"So I hear. To a man in your cells. He will not live long."

"He has yet to be found guilty."

"If he gets between me and my queen then I will see him gutted and fed to every single one of the cunts he calls a family. Have chambers readied for me and my captains, Ser. I am waiting for my future wife."

He turned away from the knight, leaving the hall with the Pykes on his heel. There was silence behind him, shock at the way he had talked about Daenerys Targaryen and how he had spoken to the ruler of the city.

Barristan Selmy was old now. If he wanted to come after them then he could go ahead. He would feel the taste of Greyjoy steel between his eyes.

The descent down the marble stairs wasn't as hard as the climb. When they reached the bottom they found Tidewood waiting for them.

"I 'ave 'ad Ragnor's prisoner brought round to the gardens, lord captain. He is waiting to talk to you there."

"Good. Did the men receive the men I sent them."

"They did. They enjoyed them well."

"Good."

Tidewood joined their group then, leading the trio around the great pyramid and to a shaded spot of trees. Many of the captains of the Iron Fleet were already present.

Wulfe One-Ear and Steffar the Stammerer were engaging in a finger dance. Steffar would win, Victarion knew. It had been a finger dance that had cost Wulfe his left ear.

Harras the Fell Wind was downing ale with his crew, singing songs of the great military victories of the Ironborn. No doubt he would soon have a song about how they destroyed the fleets of New Ghis, Yunkai, Qarth and Meereen.

It was Quellon and Burton that had been left to guard the prisoner. Neither of the brothers looked like a warrior, with both possessing large chests from too much food and drink. Their beards were both large and bushy, coming down to their waist in a mass of tangled hair.

The man that sat between them was looking away from him at first.

He was a thin man, no warrior, with an elegant frame. He had the look of a prince or merchant. He turned to look at the approaching group, and then Victarion could make out the glittered jewels inlaid into his skin. He glittered under the son.

He rose from his seat.

"Lord captain, it is a pleasure-"

He was interrupted by Quellon, who forced him back to his knees.

Victarion turned to the Pykes then.

"Go find yourselves a woman each. You have served well."

They nodded their thanks and left, with Ragnor heading to the whores and Longwater going to join in the singing at Harras' table.

Victarion seated himself opposite the prisoner.

"Lord captain, it is a pleasure to finally meet you. My name is Xaro Xhoan Daxos, a merchant emissary from the great city of Qarth. It disappoints me that I was taken so cruelly by your men."

"You were besieging the city of my wife. If the men we killed were yours then you are their general. You should have died with them."

The man frowned at this remark, tears coming to his eyes.

"I am afraid to say that I am a coward, lord captain. I would sooner give myself over to you and buy my freedom than die like some commoner. I deserve more respect than that."

"You lost. You deserve nothing."

The prisoner's face paled at that remark, starting to understand that maybe he wouldn't be allowed safe passage back to his home at all.

"I can give you much gold, lord captain. Many gems too. Anything in the world that you desire from me. Ask and it is yours."

"There is something you can give me."

"What? Tell me! Anything!"

The man's voice was starting to get louder and reach a higher pitch. He wanted to live. If that was the case then he shouldn't have opposed the will of R'hllor.

"You can give me your life."

The man's eyes bulged almost out of his sockets. Tears appeared in his eyes as he begged for mercy. He was dragged away by Wulfe as he called out, pleading for his safe passage, offering the lives of his men in return. He truly was a coward.

"Should we take 'im down to be drowned, lord captain?"

"That one burns. Drown any other captains that would rather die than serve as crew."

He rose from his seat then, waking away from Tidewood without another word.

He found Moqorro Dark Flame stood at the top of the steps that led up to the mighty pyramid of Meereen. The man was looking out over the sprawling city before him.

"You lied to me, Dark Flame. You promised me a kingdom and a queen. The queen is not here. She has fled this city and you have brought me to my death."

The man turned to him, his face wise. He clasped Victarion's charred hand in his, and his palms felt as warm as the flames.

"I lie not, captain. The dragon is coming. I sense it now. Soon she will be yours. I have seen you walk down these very steps with her in your arms and the men of the city calling out to you. You will be beloved and seen as a saviour for all of time."

"When does she come, Dark Flame? I must return to claim my throne."

"She will come to you soon. You know what must be done first?"

"I do."

"Then build the pyre. He burns tonight and R'hllor will take your offering and show you the way."

Moqorro turned back to looking out over the city, his hands clasped together in front of him. The smell of burning wood was on him, as it often was. He was a man as charred as Victarion's hand.

The next few hours were full of labour and toil. He gathered much wood, chopping it from dying trees and using much of the wreckage from the battle. He constructed the pyre himself, as was tradition according to Moqorro.

When dusk came the white knight descended, his cloak billowing in the evening wind. with him came a large man with a larger belly, as well as a slender boy of dark skin.

The prisoner was brought forth by Wulfe and Ragnor, but it was he who tied the knots. Xaro Xhoan Daxos told him of the many riches of Qarth that could be his. He ignored him. A dying man promises many things.

It was Moqorro who brought forth the flame. Tidewood shied away from it as he did, and one of Barristan's men moved forward to stop him. He in turn was stopped.

Victarion took the flame from the red priest, and stood before the pyre that he had built himself. The man strapped to it wept, the tears streaming over the jewels he had in his skin. He had proved a coward at the last.

"Xaro Xhoan Daxos, merchant of Qarth, I offer you to R'hllor as a sign of my faith and thanks. He gave me the strength to defeat you. May he be thanked as such."

A few men amongst the Ironborn gathered muttered the phrase, but not many. Barristan Selmy stayed stony faced and silent.

The flame dropped then, igniting quickly on the wood.

It took a while for it to reach the man, who screamed as the flames tickled the bottom of his feet. It caught his clothes next, engulfing him in fire.

Men started to leave then, but others stayed, some out of obligation and others fascination.

His screams never stopped before he died.

The Qartheen was nothing but charred bones when the fire went out.

Barristan Selmy stood on the opposite side of the fire, his face grave. The smaller of his guards looked like he was going to be sick.

There was a small clinking sound as the others chose to leave.

The jewels that Xaro Xhoan Daxos had showed so much pride in fell to the floor.


	7. Jorah Mormont

As he walked through the forest of tents in the Yunkish camp Ser Jorah thought of lost loves.

His first had been a girl from Sea Dragon Point. She had lived with her father and mother in a log cabin on a hill. She had not been highborn, though, and his father had disapproved. He had said that sometimes we have to do what was right for our house and not for our heart, and so he had married him off to Gayala Glover, the daughter of the man who was then lord.

He had never loved his first wife, although in time he had come to care for her. She had been plump around the waist, with long brown hair and glittering green eyes, the colour of leaves.

She had loved to sit on the beaches of Bear Island and listen to the waves breaking on the cliffs and outjutting rocks. It had been on one of these that he had married her.

His father had told him that it was an ancient wedding tradition on Bear Islands. Men had to be married where they could see the sea, so they knew from where they would defend their wife. His home may be a small island, but it possessed swifter ships than those of White Harbor or Flint's Finger.

She had died, however. He had dug her grave himself, as a last sign of respect for the wife that he had lost.

His aunt had wanted him to marry straight away, offering her eldest daughter as a potential match.

Dacey had been a strong girl, tall and elegant even then. She had been ten years his junior. He had not wanted her, however, and by then he was lord, his father having given up his titles to serve the Night's Watch.

Then he had met his second love. Lynesse Hightower.

She had been beautiful, with golden, cascading hair and cream skin.

He had married her little more than a week after they first met, wearing her favour in the tourney that made his name.

She had hated Bear Island where Gayala had loved it. She thought the waves too loud, the cliffs too sheer, the halls too cold. His humble castle was not the High Tower that she had grown up in, no matter how much money he spent to try and make it so.

He had fawned over her and disgraced himself for her, and she had left him to become the whore of a merchant. He had been thrown out of the city, and had feared returning. Lys was forbidden to him.

He thought of Gayala, Dacey and Lynesse as he walked. He thought of his first kiss, that had come with the girl from Sea Dragon Point. He couldn't remember her name. That was before his father had knocked the lordling's cockiness from him.

He was disturbed from his thoughts then by his companion.

The man was large of belly and thin of hair. What little he did have on his head was blonde, cut short messily, as if he had used his own sword. His lips were large and full. His name was Ser Medgar.

He claimed to be a bastard from the Riverlands, born of noble blood, although Jorah saw little of it in him. He was a druken lout. Naturally, he had been picked out by the Imp.

Tyrion Lannister had made few friends since joining the Second Sons, and those he had made were the rejects from the main group.

There was this one and then another, a man named Carter. He was a lowborn man from the Reach, banished by Mace Tyrell, or so he claimed, for the rape of one of the lord's cousins.

He was a thin faced man with a deep scar across his face, running from his right ear to his left cheek. The man was sadistic, laughing at any opportunity that he had to cause chaos. Jorah felt that he wasn't to be trusted.

The tents of the Second Sons were arranged in a mismatched circle. They were ragged things, worn from the combat they had seen. Any colour that they may once had been had since faded in the heat of the Essosi sun.

Jorah passed people he recognised on his patrol.

There was the Dothraki called Bokkoko, swinging his axe at a dangerous speed, directing it towards a human shape crudely made of logs. The serjeant Uhlan was shouting at the Blacksmith's boy, spit visibly flying from his mouth.

The Second Sons was an unruly company, being left mostly to their own devices by their leader, who didn't care how they behaved as long as they earned him coin.

Soon they made the approach to Brown Ben Plumm's tent. He tried to check ahead of himself, to make sure that the Imp had succeeded in his part of the mission. He had said that he would be able to assign the guards that were on duty. Sure enough, Carter stood on one side.

He was joined by fat Ser Garibald, a sellsword who had once earned his renown with the both the Windblown and the Golden Company. He had left them as he grew old, and Brown Ben had been happy to acquire someone of his reputation. He did little by the way of fighting now.

Usually no-one was allowed inside the inner ring, as a precaution against attacks on Ben Plumm's life.

There was no-one watching the tent as Jorah and Medgar made their approach. That was the way that it had been arranged.

The tent that belonged to Ben Pumm was larger than the others, made of faded coloured scraps.

He entered, only to find more people within than he had expected.

Ben Plumm sat on his own side of the table, resplendent in his golden earrings and necklace, gifts from the high command of the Yunkaii.

Opposite him were three men, with four more stood at the two ends of the table.

The first of the sat men was Kasporio. He was a thin man in elegant attire. He kept himself looking smart even here, amongst the dust of the east and the ragged tents. He was out of place.

The man was a nasty piece of work, more of a raper than he was a sellsword, and he was Ben Plumm's second in command.

The man sat in the centre had the copper skin of the Dothraki. He was young and thin, with a long braid. Jorah did not recognise him at first, as he was not expecting to see him here. The Dothraki recognised him, though. He jumped to his feet at the sight.

"Jorah the Andal? You fight for enemy?"

The boy reached for his whip, but could not find it. He looked different with it taken away. This was Jhogo, bloodrider to his queen.

The third seated man rose then, using his hook hand to force the Dothraki back into the chair.

"Remember, Dothraki scum, you are our prisoner. If you want to keep your precious braid then I would recommend not threatening our men."

Snatch laughed at this, as did Kasporio, and some of the other men. Ben Plumm's face remained stony. Jorah remembered that the man had Dothraki blood.

On the right side of the table stood two more men familiar to him. One was shorter than most.

The Imp stood next to Inkpots, looking uncomfortable and uneasy. He had not expected this little meeting to occur, and it could foil their carefully concocted plan.

It was only when one of the other men spoke that Jorah realised that it wasn't a man at all.

The Girl General was short in height and stocky in build. She wore thick armour and a mighty helm, shaped in the design of a harpy. Her bosom was large, but invisible behind the breastplate that she had chosen.

"Gorzhak zo Eraz is dead. That puts me in command. I am telling you to go and defend the trebuchet."

Ben Plumm looked down at his fingernails, as if inspecting their cleanliness.

It was Inkpots that spoke up next.

"It was Morghaz zo Zherzyn who was next in command. Should he not be next on the rota? He wishes for us to join the Company of the Cat..."

His voice was mild and reedy, slower than the younger men present.

"How exactly did Pudding Face die?"

The girl stopped spekaing then. He thought that she was little like his queen. She lacked the confidence and the bravery that Daenerys had. This one was little more than a girl.

"He was killed."

Ben Plumm looked up at that, interested at last.

"By who?"

The girl looked to her companion, a chiselled man with ebony skin. He didn't meet her eyes, instead staring straight ahead.

Her response was mumbled and he didn't hear it, but Brown Ben Plumm did.

"The Windblown? They have turned their banners? Trust the Tattered Prince to be deceitful. Why should I follow you when you clearly lack the men?"

"The other commanders may offer us better terms. What would you give us?"

Kasporio had leaned forward at this news, no doubt deciding that there was something that he could earn in this.

"I offer you whatever needs offered."

Ben Plumm smiled at that.

"Then I would ask for a few moments to talk with our men. Wait outside and I will call for you when a decision has been reached."

The girl looked unsure at this, being commanded clearly not sitting well with her. She realised that she was surrounded by sellswords, however, and left, not wanting the same fate that had befallen her companion.

"Ask her for the city."

Kasporio was quick off the mark.

"Have her install us as the masters of Meereen if we back her claim as ruler of Yunkai."

"Pudding Face may have been an important master, but others still hold power. What of zo Zherzyn, or mo Eraz, or zo Ahlaq."

Inkpots spoke then, in his usual measured tone.

Then it was Snatch's turn.

"Why not ask for the dragon whore? She is pretty enough, but I have yet to see between her legs. We can chain her up outside the tent, let the men have her. We will see how pretty she looks when six hundred men have had her."

Jhogo moved to attack him then, but Kasporio held him back lazily. The chains around the Dothraki's feet made it difficult for him to resist.

"Why should we fight for her?"

Brown Ben rose from his seat then, placing both his hands on the table and leaning forward.

"What do the Yunkai have now? We turned our banners because they had superior strength. Now they don't. We have one of their commanders. Let us give her to Daenerys Targaryen and beg our forgiveness. We will fight for her and ravage Yunkai instead of Meereen."

Jorah's eyes moved to the Imp then. They couldn't have this. It would ruin the plan. The Second Sons couldn't turn their banners, or neither would be allowed into the city, and he needed to be allowed in the city. He needed to see her one last time.

He had betrayed her once, he wouldn't do it again.

He moved forward, his hands fumbling at his belt. Ben was the only one that noticed, the others looking away from him. His eyes widened as he saw the knife. Jorah drove it through the back of Kasporio's head.

That was what started the bloodbath. Ben called out and men ran into the room.

Inkpots moved away, the Imp going with him. Swords were drawn behind Jorah. Medgar stood with him.

Garibald's dead body in the door of the tent, Carter's knife protruding through his mouth. The thin swordsman had joined them in the tent.

"Drop your weapons, traitors."

He turned at the voice, to see Snatch holding a knife to Jhogo's throat in his one good hand.

"You, Mormont. You want to see your queen again? Do you think she will let you when she finds out you let this Dothraki cunt die? Now put your weapons to the floor, all of you."

There was a click behind Snatch. He looked to Jorah in confusion, forgetting that there had been more people in the tent.

"I think this will make ten dead with a crossbow, pisspot."

The bolt flew quickly, as Snatch let go of Jhogo and turned with his knife. It hit him square in the neck. The man fell to the floor, spasming and coughing up blood. He died slowly, none of the men moving forward to give him a quick death.

Ben Plumm stood on the other side of the table, the dead bodies of his trusted men before him. There was no hatred in his eyes, just one of calm contemplation.

"Are you here to take my head and give it to your queen, Mormont? No-one else here has to die. I am worth more alive than I am dead. I can give you the Girl General. I can give you a Yunkish commander, to make the gift you give even sweeter."

"You are a traitor, why should I trust you?"

"Am I more of a traitor than you or the kinslaying imp? Do you deny that I am worth more to your queen alive?"

Jorah moved forward then, intent on his murder. The man had questioned his honour in the name of Daenerys. He had to die.

"Ser Jorah, let us be guided by head and not our cocks. The man is right. He gives our queen the Second Sons. He is worth much to her cause alive."

"She is not your queen, Imp. Do not address her as such. You take the man then, and the girl too. I will fulfill my role. But I do not do it willingly."

He gathered the older of the two surviving Second Sons from the ground.

Inkpots was cowering in his own pool of fluids, his was of piss though, not blood. His robes were wet to the touch and he stank.

He took the man who was still quivering from the shock, and carried him out of the tent, not even looking back at the Imp and his mercenaries.

The Girl General was stood a distance away from the tent. her bodyguard with her. Even though you could barely see her figure, some of the Second Sons had gathered to lick their lips at the sight of her.

He realised that he likely cut a queer figure, striding through the camp carrying an old man that stank of piss. Bokkoko looked at him with a strange curiosity as he passed his practice arena.

He found the next member of their party waiting for him just outside the circle of tents.

Kem was small and slight, his shock of pale blond hair almost covering his face. He had their horses ready, taken from the small stables that the Second Sons had been able to set up.

"You're riding with the old man, boy,"

Kem didn't object. No doubt he was scared of bigger men with bigger frames.

The two strapped Inkpots to the back of one of the horses, and then Kem scarbbled onto the front of the saddle.

"The Company of the Cat are to the west. There is a break in the lines if we ride straight on. It should take us to the outer wall of Meereen, ser."

Jorah nodded at this, and he silently began to ride forward.

Soon they arrived at the walls of the great city. They were made of red and yellow bricks and towered well over their heads. Above them there would be archers, he had no doubt. They would be waiting for an attack, and ready to rain arrows down on anyone that dared attack.

He led Kem on the route to the left, running alongside the walls. They would not be able to see them from above. He knew that the Imp would be making the same move, but from the other side.

Soon they arrived at the great gates of Meereen, shining and new. The old gates has been destroyed when his queen had taken the city. These were the replacements, a gift from the Lhazareen.

They were opened, to his surprise, and a group of people were already clustered around the outside, some on horseback and others on foot. He dismounted a decent distance a way, handing his horse over to Kem, who stayed astride his own with Inkpots.

He strode through the gathered men until he reached the gate, where he saw two men standing before a blockade of Unsullied.

One of them was a grey haired man dressed in a cloak of more colours than the walls of Meereen and Brown Ben's tent put together. He was thin and elegant in shape. For a moment he thought that Prince Rhaegar had returned.

Then he realised that the man was a prince, but no dragon. This one was the prince3 of sellswords and the lord of tattered cloaks. He was the commander of the Windblown, and he was in strange company.

Daario Naharis was dressed in soiled yellow clothes, his hair as strikingly blue as it had always been. It was he who was talking to the city guards, and it was he who first made notice of Jorah.

"Ser Mormont, what brings you here? Last I heard you were a banished man refused from seeing our queen. You have grown old in your time away, slower and uglier too, I would expect. You seem to be less use to the dragon than you were before, so why return?."

The man smiled at him. It was a fiendish smile meant to play with him even more. The sellsword knew what he was doing, and he was cleverer than most gave him credit for.

"I have come with gifts for my queen."

"I am sure she will be pleased with the green boy and old man that accompanies you. I think not that she will forgive you based on these presents though, Jorah the Andal."

"There is more."

"Then I do not see it. I bring a gift to our queen too, brave knight. I bring her two thousand men of the Windblown, as well as their captain, willing and ready to fight."

"I do not see two thousand men gathered here."

The other man stepped forward.

"We could hardly march our entire army to the gates of Meereen, could we, Jorah the Andal. I bring my finest warriors now, and have sent the rest into the hills, where they will plague the Yunkish supply train."

The man's eyes were grey, like storm clouds, yet here they glimmered in the light, as if he was enjoying some private joke. Jorah had heard tales of the sad-eyed warrior prince that led the Windblown. This man was not he. This man was happy and excited for something coming. He disliked it.

"Your other gifts arrive, Ser Jorah. I think I spy them now."

True enough the Imp was riding through the crowds of gathered Windblown on the back of a grey mare. Behind him rode Medgar, who held the reigns. Just behind him rode Carter, a knife to the throat of Ben Plumm, but the commander never stopped smiling.

It was a thin smile, wicked and devious. This man wasn't to be trusted. He should have killed him and had done with it.

Then came Jhogo, taking up the rear on a small grey horse, his knife at the throat of the Girl General. Her ebony skinned bodyguard was nowhere to be seen.

Daario nodded in approval, his whiskers bouncing as he did.

"You bring her an imp, a fat man, a cutthroat, a girl and a Dothraki, as well as a captain with no company. I still think I have done the better work, my friend."

He was about to go for the man. Daario may be quick, but he wasn't as strong as a knight. His tongue was sharper than any steel he possesed

It was the Imp who stopped him, calling out as Ser Medgar helped him down from the horse.

"You must introduce me to your friend, Ser Jorah. I do not believe we have met. My name, good ser, is Tyrion of the House Lannister, kingslayer and kinslayer."

The dwarf did a mock bow, flourishing his hand as he did.

"At your service."

It was the prince who responded first to the Imp's comment.

"A lion at the gate of Meereen, and escorted by a bear, no less. I wonder what more surprises await me in the city. I met your father once, Tyrion of the House Lannister. You did the world a good service in killing him."

"Enough of these pleasantries. I want access to the Pyramid now. I have prisoners to deliver."

" _We_ have prisoners to deliver. It was a group effort, Ser Jorah."

He moved closer so as to clout the Imp for his insolence, but dodged back when Carter moved to draw his blade. He could probably kill the man, but he did not want to do so here.

Jorah felt a burning sensation in the mark upon his face as he looked at the man. Something about him just didn't seem right.

He had joined the Second Sons after them, bought by Ben Plumm at a slave auction. He had a harsh face, even for the warriors of the Second Sons.

A man stepped through the line of the Unsullied. Jorah recognised him vaguely. He had been a counsellor to his queen too.

Marselen no longer wore the uniform of Unsullied, however. Instead he dressed in polished armour. He carried no sword, however, preferring the spear that he had been trained with."

"Who cause commotion at gates? Enemy or friend?"

His eyes panned across the gathered group, stopping first when he saw and recognized Daario.

"You? You a hostage. How you here?"

Daario stepped forward, putting his arm around Marselen's shoulder.

"It is a story that would take too long for me to explain, my friend. Full of sharpened steel and daring escapades, I can assure you. Me and my friends now seek to be allowed into the city."

"You bring men who enemies of the city."

"These men have chosen to switch their banners. Go tell our queen that her beloved has returned, and that she has surprises both exciting and surrising."

"Our queen gone."

What? She was gone? Where could she be gone to? He stepped forward then, intent on getting his answers from Marselen.

"Ser Barristan rules as Queen's Hand."

His heart dropped. Barristan Selmy? The man responsible for his exile from the city? He would never be allowed to return to his queen's side if the decision was left up to him.

The Imp stepped forward then.

"Ser Barristan is a good and noble man. We knew each other a long time ago, or so it seems. I would like to talk to him."

This confused Marselen, who looked down at the dwarf with surprise and trepidation. He clearly had not expected to be told what to do by someone half his size.

"Who should I say asks?"

"I am a man who goes by many names. Tell him that Tyrion Lannister calls, although he will likely call me Tyrion Kinslayer. Many now do."

The Unsullied left then, taking two men with him as he made the long climb to the pyramid, those left at the gates forced into occupying time as they waited.

The Imp shared a wineskin with Medgar, teasing Kem with it, handing it to the boy after some time, for him to only find out that it was empty. His cursing was only masked by their guffaws.

Daario talked to men of the Windblown, telling them some of the outlandish stories that he had shared with Daenerys. The man combined the callousness of a sellsword with the harshness of a Pentoshi magister. He was not to be trusted.

Soon the Unsullied returned, Ser Barristan on his tail. With him was the huge monster of a man that they called Belwas, as well as another hulking figure, dressed in full plate armour. This man was unfamiliar with him.

"I was told that a kinslaying lion was at my gates, whining for an audience. Come forward for your trial, Tyrion Lannister."

The Imp stepped forward then, a jovial look on his face. Barristan's own bore a grimace at the sight of the dwarf's lack of nose.

"That would be me, Ser Barristan. What trial do you speak of?"

"Time has not spared you it's ravages, I see, Imp. I speak of your trial by combat. I would ask for you to defeat my champion. Only then shall you be allowed to pass these gates."

"I should hope the man I have to face is neither of those two. I think you will find a bit of a height difference."

Barristan turned, and the two men parted, revealing a slender man carrying a whip and trident.

"Ser Larraq of Meereen. I have been training him. You have a sword, Imp?"

Tyrion fumbled at his belt, trying to draw his weapon. In truth, it was too large and heavy for him.

"I will champion for the Imp."

He stepped forward, and Barristan's eyes turned to him. First he displayed shock, and then anger.

"You should not be here, Mormont. You are an exile."

"Me and the dwarf bring you two commanders of the Yunkish army, one of them being a man who betrayed my queen, Barristan. I have earned my right to kneel before her once again."

"That is not for you to say."

"And yet I am saying it. Now let me into that city, or I swear I will cut down every Meereenese knight that you send my way."

There was a standoff then, both men staring each other down. Eventually Barristan's eyes flickered and he turned.

"Larraq, Belwas, show the Imp, Ser Jorah and their companions to the cells. Make sure they are separated. I will see the others in the Apex."

Jorah Mormont relaxed then, and he stepped into the city of his queen once again. When she was back he would be by her side.

He would be hers.


	8. Barristan Selmy

Ser Barristan Selmy looked at the head that the Shavepate had handed him.

Hero had the ebony skin that was associated with the Summer Islands, where he had been born before the Astapori snatched him from the cradle.

He had been one of the hostages they had handed over, and now he was dead.

The Yunkish had left his head on a spike outside the city gates that morning.

They said that it was a punishment for the escape of two of the other hostages. Jhogo and Daario had both come to honour the dead.

"We should not be hiding behind our walls. Our queen would want us to attack them and skin them all before she returns, especially after this insult."

The sellsword was a butcher. He knew little in the way of politics, and wasn't to be trusted with the plans for battle.

"Hero should have honour. He was good soldier and good Unsullied. Burn what have of him, in honour of queen he fought for."

Grey Worm spoke of his comrade succinctly, not even a tear coming to his eye. He had been close with Hero.

"What use is burning his head when the jackals at the gate have the rest of the body? Let us ride out, I say. Stormcrows and Windblown together."

"I will answer the call if that is as Ser Barristan wishes."

The Tattered Prince stepped in then, the two men of the Windblown he had brought with him stayed behind.

"The man that slew Maelys the Monstrous must surely know how to lead an army."

They all looked at him then, The Shavepate, Daario, Grey Worm. Looking to him for answers. Looking to him to find out how Barristan the Bold would save the day. What was the plan.

The Yunkish forces still commanded five thousand men, bolstered by the Company of the Cat and the legions of New Ghis, Mantarys and Tolos. Soon they would have the armies of Volantis to bolster that, although the Greyjoy fleet held the Volantene ships out of the bay.

Was Daario right? Was an attack now the only option? Should they strike before more troops arrived to support their enemy.

The Windblown had 2000 men under their banners, although most of that force wasn't in the city. The Stormcrows commanded five hundred horsemen. Together they numbered half the New Ghis force.

Meereen hardly commanded many men themselves, with the Unsullied making the bulk of their force. The Mother's Men, Brazen Beasts, Free Brothers and Stalwart Shields could all play role, but even together they didn't match up to the Yunkish force.

The trebuchets, however, meant that waiting out the siege was impossible. As they spoke, corpses were being flung into the city, and bringing the pale mare with it. They couldn't wait for her return.

They had to act fast or the city would fall.

"We must move swiftly, that is true, but we should not let our attack be guided by revenge. Let us strike because we must win for our queen."

"Naharis, Skahaz, fetch the Brazen Beasts and have them prepare along the walls. You will be our last line of defence."

The sellsword took offence at this.

"You would fight a battle without me? I have fought against odds twice this size, and slain foes twice as fearsome. I should be leading the battle, not championing the reserve."

"Your experience is why we need you here. A commander inside our walls. If I die then you must guide us to victory."

He didn't like doing this, but with Hero dead he needed Grey Worm to lead the Unsullied, and Skahaz was no general. Daario was easy to follow and good with his tongue, even if he was often possessed with a bloodlust.

Next he turned to the young Dothraki, who had fire in his eyes at the sight of the dead Summer Islander.

"Jhogo, take Rommo and gather as many young, able bodied men as you can find. Ride with the Tattered Prince into the hills. Find his force and strike them from behind. Target the Tolosi slingers, and bring down their easternmost trebuchet."

The Dothraki man grunted slightly, leaving the room. He disliked taking orders from one who wasn't blood of his blood.

Next he turned to Victarion, the hulking Greyjoy.

"You want to fight?"

"Do I ever not?"

"Good. Then take half your fleet and men and drop them on the shores behind the Yunkish line. Take down their trebuchets and occupy the Company of the Cat. Take half the Mother's Men, if you need them."

"Ironborn do not fight on land."

"Today you will have to."

This news didn't make Victarion happy at all. He grumbled to himself as he turned away, his red priest leaving the room with him. Barristan distrusted the dark wizard as much as he did the man that he whispered to.

"Marselen, take the Mother's Men and strike for the Long Lances. Take them and their trebuchet and tear it to the ground."

Naharis smiled at the thought.

"And bring me the head of Rhegan if you can. I fancy using his skull to take drinks from."

Marselen nodded to Barristan, offering no response to Daario. He then left. Two his Mother's Men following with him.

Symon Stripeback stepped forward then. He was a youngish man, slender and thin. He was no warrior.

"What of Free Brothers and Stalwart Shields, my lord. Where do we go?"

He stepped down from the dais at this, his face grave and his hand going for his sword.

"Gather your men, my friend. You ride with me."

Soon all his men had received their orders. Grey Worm was to assemble the entire Unsullied force, including the five thousand recruits in the middle of their training, and march on the trebuchet closest to the bay. There he would join up with Victarion and they would sweep west, across the battlefield.

The Widower would lead four hundred of the Stormcrow riders with Marselen, whilst one hundred stayed behind with their commander, defending from inside the city.

That left him and his men. The distraction.

Any true battle commander should lead his own vanguard. Daeron I had done it when he had conquered Dorne, as had the Last Storm King. He would follow in their footsteps. Even if it meant his own death.

He took Tumco Lho and the Red Lamb with him when he rode down through the city. Tumco carried the banner of House Targaryen, and when the freedmen saw it they cheered, although less so now that their queen had left them.

Tumco rode on his left, the Red Lamb on his right. Jorah Mormont rode behind them. He was a knight, and a capable one at that. This would give him the opportunity to prove his loyalty to their queen. He would not wear a white cloak yet, however.

There was a force already gathered at the southern gate. The Free Brothers and Stalwart Shields had taken horses where they could, but others were unmounted.

He rode to the front and turned.

"For many of you, this will be the first taste of battle you have had. You will have heard tales of glory from your father's or grandfather's. Battle is glorious, that is true, but it is also dangerous and terrifying. I would not shame any man who turned their back now and fled, or who soiled themselves right here. When you hear the sound of steel on steel for the first time. That is no glory."

"By the time I fought my first battle I was a knight, but even then I was terrified of what was coming. Death waits you out there, whatever you wish to call him. Many of you will die, but others will live, if we win. Your brothers and wives and children. That is why men fight truly."

"These men who come to your door and rain disease on your heads wish to put you back in the chains that your mother released you from. We do not want that. They are slave cities, built on death and tears. Not here, not Meereen. We are a free city with a free peoples, and we shall not lose that. We fight for Daenerys Targaryen, and we fight for freedom!"

There was a roar from the gathered crowd of men at that. Symon nodded at him respectfully as he moved his own horse to the front.

"The Free Brothers are yours to command, Ser Barristan. In the name of our mother, we fight for you."

"Do not fight for me. Fight for yourself."

Then the gate opened and they charged forward. Barristan looked to his left and saw the Stormcrows lead the Mother's Men out of the eastern gate, the Dothraki riding just behind them.

To his right the Greyjoy ships moved into place. The calls of the Ironborn for battle and blood could reach their ears even here.

Above them the Brazen Beasts gave one last salute as men rode off to battle and death.

 _I ask only this of you, Daario Naharis. Keep the city alive for our queen._

Those were the last of his thoughts before the stench of battle and blood was upon him.

They charged a Yunkish spear wall at the centre of the camp, as the plan had said. The Yunkish force was less organised than their New Ghis allies. They broke through with ease.

Some of the horses impaled themselves on spears, and the men that rode them were thrown to the ground. Some of those men died, others fought on.

Barristan brought his sword down to cut through the armour of the first foe that challenged him. That was one down.

Symon let out a scream as he was pulled from his horse by a Yunkish soldier, masked in helmet. Just before the man could deliver the finishing blow, however, he was trampled by the form of Strong Belwas.

The eunuch had chosen not to ride a horse, party because thy couldn't find one strong enough to carry his large frame.

He waited for the other cavalry men to catch up with him, before pressing the second charge. The entire front line of the Yunkish wall had been broken. The Ghiscari legion was pulling around to try and cut them off, but they were hit in the side by the Stalwart Shields, causing havoc in their ranks.

"Rally to me, men!"

He called out to the others, and saw Tumco lead the press. The Yunkish were breaking before them now, running backwards for their lives.

They stopped when they heard a horn blow, louder than even the screams of the dying.

The broken sword banner of the Second Sons flew over the battle. He looked out, not expecting the Yunkish to mobilise their reinforcements this quickly.

He watched a mad man charge towards him, axes in both his hands. Their eyes met from across the battlefield, and one of the axes left the man's hand with vicious speed. Barristan flinched, but instead of hitting him the axe found the forehead of a Yunkish spearman. Had the Second Sons turned banners again?

"Push on men, aid our new allies!"

He led the charge with the Lamb, cutting down the spearmen as they came at them. One of their weapons found the chest of the Lamb's horse, and the beast fell. He couldn't see what fate befell the rider.

The Second Sons had one man mounted. A pale faced essosi by the sound of his accent. He called out commands from the back of his chestnut coarser.

He rode alongside the man.

"I am Ser Barristan Selmy. What news of the Second Sons?"

"Isn't it bloody obvious? We turned our banners. The Yunkish murdered three of our leaders. I am Uhlan, the new commander of the Second Sons."

A Ghiscari man charged at them, but he was killed when Uhlan cut straight across his throat with his sword. He hadn't had it drawn before. His reflexes were astounding.

"Your men need you. Charge the Ghiscari at the side. We will kill the rest of the Yunkai'i."

The man rode himself off then, leading the axe wielding maniac in a chase after the retreating enemy.

He rode back to the battle then. He was relieved to see the Lamb still standing, fighting back to back with Belwas. Symon was nowhere to be seen, however, nor was Tumco.

The Ghiscari had been surprised to find themselves cut off from support. The Yunkish were in retreat, and the Tolosi were nowhere to be seen.

They themselves started to retreat then, pushing to the east, where they would find the footsoldiers of the Free Brothers waiting under their commander, a former weaver.

This particular legion had been beaten, but there were more, and the battle was not won. Now they needed to push on the trebuchet.

Suddenly a large crashing sound came from the east.

The trebuchet that he had sent the Mother's Men and Stormcrows towards had fallen, leading to more cheers from the men under Barristan's control.

"Brothers, to me! Let us push on! Fell our own trebuchet!"

The calls came closer, and he saw the man assemble before him.

Very few still rode horses, if they had done up to this point. Most of the faces were ones he didn't recognise, but he was glad to see the Lamb, Tumco and Belwas amongst them. The ebony skinned Tal Toraq sat astride his great, black coarser still.

"With me!"

He called, and the men called back in unison. They had lost maybe a quarter of their number in the first fight, but they had routed the middle of the Yunkish siege, killing twice as many as they lost.

The trebuchet was up ahead, the fourth of the six that made up the line from the Skahazadhan. It was the second that the Mother's Men and the Stormcrows had taken. When this one fell there would be four more.

A small Yunkish force had gathered around the trebuchet, the survivors of the previous skirmish. The Second Sons were standing off them, preparing to charge. He was about to join them when an entirely new sound came from their right.

When he turned to see what it was he was near blinded. Many of the men held up their arms to shield them from the light. The trebuchet closest to the bay was aflame.

Victarion had pressed well, then. The Unsullied would soon join him and then push east. The next of the trebuchets had to fall.

It was Jorah Mormont who led the charge at the Yunkish forces. The man called out like he was possessed by a demon, cutting down enemies as he charged, laying waist to his foes.

Soon he joined him, with Tumco, Tal and Uhlan at his back. The Yunkish fell quickly.

They stayed stood still for a few moments, preparing for the destruction of the trebuchet, when suddenly the Second Sons' commander was thrown from his horse by a missile. The Tolosi had formed up a rank behind the trbuchet, with spearmen from Mantarys preventing a direct charge.

Another of thei attacks narrowly missed him, flying just past his ear. He could almost hear it.

"Ser Jorah, with me! Tal, get this trebuchet down."

Toraq nodded at the command, turning to organize the Stalwart Shields and Free Brothers that had survived this long.

Barristan charged at the gathered legion. There was no more than 200, but that was still a large number to take with two men, so he was glad to see the Second Sons ride with them.

It was a massacre. He and Jorah broke the shield wall, bringing their swords down from on high. The Second Sons ran into the spaces, seizing the upper hand against the Tolosi, who preferred distance combat.

Most of the Tolosi fled, but the majority of the Mantaryns were killed or wounded. Some even turned their shields and spears on their allies.

By the time that was done the chains had been put in place. The third trebuchet fell to the ground with a crash.

Just then a large man rode up, almost breaking the back of the horse he rode. Barristan recognised Jokin, of the Stormcrows.

"The Widower is dead, milord. The Mother's Men call for reinforcements. Two legions of Ghis and one of Yunkai bears down upon them."

"Tell them to pull back to the gates, get behind the walls if they can. They have done well. Have the rest of the Stormcrows ride around to join up with the Ironborn. We will see you there."

The sellsword nodded, looking not so happy to be re-entering the fray.

The battle formed around them not long after he rode away.

The Mantaryns that had turned flag fought with them, but they were soon sent back to the city to be held as hostages.

Tal Toraq was torn from his horse by a large and muscled Yunkish warrior. The man never got back up.

The Free Brothers and Stalwart Shields started to lose hope then, both having lost their leaders.

"Push back! Back to the walls, men! Get behind the Unsullied wall!"

Any man that could ran then.

Tumco Lho had joined Jorah Mormont on his horse, guiding the beast as the older man slashed down on enemies from above. The Red Lamv tried to take command of the ever dwindling footsoldiers.

He waited for the others to leave, riding after them and holding up the rear.

Behind them lines of Yunkish and Ghiscari formed, but the Tolosi and Mantaryns had fled.

The Unsullied still advanced from the walls, and Barristan could see men passing their lines. Some carried on the run to the city, whilst others formed behind the lines of the trained eunuchs, grabbing whatever they could and tossing it at the enemy.

Jorah and Tumco were the first of his group to pass, with the other men who's horses had lasted this long coming no far behind.

After them came a stream of foot soldiers, with himself passing last.

"Gather in banks men! Follow the Unsullied to the aid of our allies!"

The Yunkish and Ghiscari had rushed after them when they fell back, sensing a moment of weakness. Now they clashed against the impenetrable wall of Unsullied, who slowly advanced onwards, crushing fallen men underfoot.

"Tumco, Jorah, ride into the hills and tell the Windblown and Dothraki to strike now. This battle is almost done. With any luck, we can take the day."

Men cheered at that, although they were tireder cheers than before. They had felt the bitter taste of war.

He looked out as Jorah Tumco galloped away, eastwards, across the battlefield. He hoped that both of them returned.

"Grey Worm!"

He called out to the Unsullied general, who stood behind of the rest of his man, calling out his own men.

"These are yours to command! I will ride to Victarion and give him my aid!"

He received no words, but a nod, signifying that Grey Worm understood his orders. The man was shouting his orders by the time that he was riding away.

The Unsullied found their fighting skills and reputation from their organisation and brotherhood. They would massacre the enemy if they could get them to him.

His stallion carried him across the land quickly, closer to the sound of the combat.

He found the Ironborn pushed back from the charred remains of the trebuchet. The Company of the Cat had gathered two legions of Ghiscari warriors on their side.

The figure of Victarion Greyjoy was a prominent one amongst the battle. He cut down any man that came before him with his monstrous axe.

Barristan rode into the fray, driving his sword into the back of a Yunkish spearman.

He heard the calls of the Ironborn and Yunkish, but above all else he could hear the sellswords of the Company of the Cat.

One voice rose above all of the others. It was boistrous and commanding, thick with a desire for blood and death.

Bloodbeard.

It had been he that had presented Groleo's head to them. He had a grudge with this man that would end with blood.

A few men threw themselves in his way as he rode after the origin of the voice. He cut all of them down. They were faceless enemies.

When he first saw the commander of the enemy sellsword company he thought him to be Maelys the Monstrous.

He was much larger than most men, although maybe not so much as Maelys had been. His beard was large and bushy, dyed red, some said with the blood of his enemies. He was sat astride a fine red stallion. Their eyes met as the two were pulled together.

"I will take your head here, white knight, and use your cloak as a robe for your whore queen to wear when she is part of my harem!"

The large man charged first, a heavy axe in his hand. Barristan switched his sword and moved to meet him. The enemy swung, but not for him.

The axe made clean contact with the neck of his horse. There wasn't enough force to decapitate the beast, but it did cause it to fall, blood pouring from the wound in it's neck. He was thrown from his saddle, and rolled on the floor.

Before he had recovered from the fall a shadow fell across him. Bloodbeard stood astride his horse, laughing as he lay before him.

He had lost his sword in the fall. He tried to reach out for a weapon, grabbing the first thing that he could find. His enemy had raised the axe above his head, readying to deliver the killing blow, but first Barristan pushed up.

The spear that he had picked up pierced the neck of Bloodbeard's stallion, causing it to whiny and for it's rider to lose control. He was thrown to the ground, and the beast fled.

The man had held control of his weapon, and readied himself quickly enough. He charged.

Barristan was left with the shattered end of a spear, not much of a weapon when up against a large man with an axe and a bloodlust.

He jumped back from the first few swings, avoiding the cruel blade of the axe, struggling to spot his weapon amongst the carnage of battle.

The sword had been a gift to him from his queen. Losing it was not an option.

He dodged around the large bulk of the man, bringing the spear down on th back of his neck with all the force he could. It smashed, and Bloodbeard was unfazed.

The man turned slowly, laughing at the weak strike.

"You grow old, Andal. Let me show you death!"

He fell backwards as he dodged the next axe strike. As he lay on the floor, awaiting the killing blow, he felt the feel of metal beneath him.

He Rolled to the side, grabbing the sword as he did, before slashing out at Bloodbeard's exposed legs, bringing forth blood.

The captain roared at that, stumbling backwards.

He pulled himself to his feet and began the offensive, slashing the enemy from a distance and avoiding the ranged strikes.

One went on the man's right arm. another cut through his beard, and eventually onecut through the leather that covered his chest.

Bloodbeard scowled and howled at that, and charged one last time. It took one thrust to finish him off, but the man still fell forward, on top of him and covering him from light.

He didn't have the strength to throw himself free,and instead had to hear the battle occur around him.

He heard Victarion call out a retreat before the Unsullied could arrive. He heard the Company of the Cat holler for their leader, not knowing he was gone. He heard the wails of dying men on th ground, no man willing to give them mercy.

It seemed that hour passed before he could throw his fallen foe from on top of him, and dusk had settled by then.

The battlefield he was empty. Some of the dead had been removed, but around him many corpses still lay, the ravens eating the eyes out of the sockets.

He limped his way back to the city.

When he reached the gates he found them closed and barred. The Greyjoy ships were still in the bay, so they must have at least pulled back.

"Open the gates!"

He called up to the Brazen Beasts that guarded the walls. It was not one of them who leaned over the walls, however.

He was confronted with the curving nose of Daario Naharis.

"Ser Barristan? We thought you to be dead. Let him in. Open the gates!"

Daario was stood beyond the gates when they opened, dressed in his yellow battle garb, his blue hair long down his back.

"It is truly good to see you, my friend. I thank the gods that you have lived. Others thought you gone."

"Who rules in my place?"

"Skahaz has seized power. He threatens the noble Hizdahr if the other families refuse to support him."

The Shavepate was a loyal man, if not a competent one. It was better that he sat in the pyramid than Reznak or zo Loraq.

"Take me to him."

The streets of Meereen were quieter than they usually were. Many of the men had died in the battle, and their families would be in mourning for their loss.

They approached the Great Pyramid in silence, a pair that would have looked odd in any environment. Naharis was too flamboyant for his tastes.

After making the long climb he found the hall full, Skahaz stood in front of Daenerys' bench. Four bodies were laid out on the floor.

The first was Symon Stripeback, his scarred face peaceful in death, and his small, slender frame looked even smaller in the grandness of the hall.

Laid next to him was Tal Toraq, who had been killed by Yunkishmen. He was paler here than he ever had been. Wounds piercing his stomach in many places. His death had been slow and painful.

The next body was bowlegged, and had the copper skin of the Dothraki. Rommo's braid had been allowed to stay, a sign of respect towards a Dothraki who had died without being defeated.

The last body was the smallest, and had never been killed in battle.

Missandei's face was flat and her skin dusky. Her eyes were molten, and still spread wide. She had seen something strange before she died.

She had been stripped of her clothes after death, left as naked as the day that she had been born. Her chest was flat, as she had been little more than a child.

Her nakedness was not the worst thing.

Carved into her chest was a harpy, formed of blood and with a face of death, eyes baring into those of every man .


	9. The Guardsman

The hottest days come before the coldest winters.

That was what the Dornish said, and, in the many years that he had spent here, he had learned the wisdom behind those words.

The sweltering heat had grown during the last few days. He sweltered underneath his garments, yet still he stood there, watching his prince sit.

Doran Martell waited for something, for news from his son and his daughter. One in the east, and one to the north.

He had grown older since Arianne had left, worried of the fate of his children and his house.

There had been no letter from Quentyn since his party arrived in Meereen.

Maester Caleotte came twice during the day, but neither time with news. He only came to change the bandages on the prince's feet and bring him news from Dorne. Lady Blackmont had married a second time, this time to a Dayne of the High Hermitage, and Harmen Uller had ridden from Brimstone, to a feast at Vaith.

Doran had closed his eyes at this, and the Maester had left, knowing that he was no longer wanted.

Ricasso had visited the prince too, Manfrey Martell at his back. They had spoken of crimes in Plankytown, committed by the Orphans.

Again the news had disinterested the prince, who had closed his eyes in the heat. The prince had a sweat formed on his brow, yet he didn't move to wipe it away, and nor did Areo. You did not live to an old age in Dorne without being able to withstand the heat.

The balcony they were sat upon looked out over the courtyard.

Manfrey was leading a training exercise, showing children how to fight with swords, slashing, cutting and thrusting. That was the part of his job that the man enjoyed, he knew, teaching a new generation how to fight for the glory of House Martell.

"What do you think Arianne will find outside Dorne, Areo?"

The question confused him. Doran sometimes asked him counsel, but if he didn't know what Arianne was looking for then why did he send her?

"She will find the dragon that calls himself Aegon."

The boy had been at Griffin's Roost when he had sent the latest raven, speaking of successes in the Stormlands, and calling for the support of his uncle.

"Is the boy a real dragon, I wonder. My nephew died in King's Landing, that is what Jon Arryn told me and Oberyn when he came. I can wish for this to be my nephew all I like, that may not make it so."

"Then who is he?"

Doran's eyes closed as a cooler breeze came across the balcony. He waited a few moments before speaking again.

"Many years ago there was a young boy in King's Landing. The dragons were fighting, and his mother thought that maybe she could take advantage. She named him king, and he thought he had the blood of royalty. He was, in truth, the bastard son of a Lysene oarsman. Maybe this boy is the same. Nothing more than a deception."

"Then Arianne goes north to find the truth?"

"She goes north to find something, captain. What she will find in the mountains of the Stormlands, I do not yet know."

Doran had missed his eldest daughter, and feared for her safety, that much he could see.

The two had not been close for many years, with the prince preferring the Water Gardens to Sunspear. Arianne had loved the shadows of Plankytown, playing on the Greenblood with the Orphans and her highborn companions.

She had grown beautiful since then, and had grown apart from her father and her middle brother. She had looked after Prince Trystane well enough.

The younger prince had left them a few days earlier, not long after his sister. He had travelled by ship out of Plankytown, Lady Nym and the golden haired princess with him. They were to go to the capital and meet the king, offering the Prince of Dorne's congratulations on his ascension and marriage.

Many children had grown up in these walls since Arianne's birth.

His little princess had grown up with her cousins, Obara, Nymeria and Tyene. Then Quentyn and Sarella had come, followed by Elia, Trystane, Obella, Dorea and Loreza. None of them were here now. The place was quieter than it had been in years.

He knew that much, even though he spent little time here, accompanying his prince in the Water Gardens for much of the year.

The place had lost Oberyn too, and you could feel the difference within the walls of Sunspear. The people no longer had their beloved prince and princess, yet Doran seemed to do nothing.

Dorne was ready for war.

The white knight that the capital had sent to replace Arys Oakheart had sensed it in the air. He had heard it in the voices that hurled abuse at him, and seen it in the scars of Myrcella Baratheon.

He had accompanied Balon Swann as he rode to the Water Gardens, having been told to leave his prince's side for the first time in many years.

The white knight had made poor company, preferring silence over conversation. He was less handsome than Oakheart, but stronger and better built. If they had ever clashed blades then it would have been a good fight.

The princess had told him of the Darkstar, Gerold Dayne, and how he had killed Ser Arys and made to kill her, too, before being chased off into the desert by Prince Trystane and Doran's men.

Swann had no choice then, after she asked him to find her attacker. He had to go, and Doran had been kind enough to offer the service of his niece, Obara, to help in the mission. A sign of support for the crown.

They had left after Balon had seen off Myrcella, travelling on the backs of sand steeds, the white knight leaving his horse behind in the stables of Sunspear.

Tyene had gone before all of them, heading north with a few men, who were to escort her to Skyreach. From there Lord Fowler would send her to the girl's mother, who would get her to the capital.

Or so Doran had planned.

The Fowlers were a powerful house in the west of Dorne, often warring with the Yronwoods of the Stoneway. Lord Fowler's two daughters had gone to the capital with Nymeria, as part of her Dornish escort.

They had received a letter from Starfall recently, telling that the young lord had returned home with his aunt, and that they did seek to repeat their vows of allegiance before House Martell. This had pleased the prince.

The servants in the shadows said that Doran Martell had loved a Dayne once, but that she had never loved him back. He had been married at the time, but the years had strained it.

Areo chose not to believe them. His lady had always loved her husband before they fought, and his prince had always loved her in return. Doran Martell was not an unfaithful man.

Whatever the case, Allyria Dayne had arrived the day before last by boat, coming as a representative of her nephew. She had bent the knee before Doran and recited the pledge that her family had made many times, offering the swords of the Daynes, as well as their hearts.

Doran had accepted, then asked her to meet him on the morrow, to talk of the future.

There was a rap on the door then, causing the prince to open his eyes. Caleotte stepped in, followed by a woman of great beauty.

She was tall, with a lithe figure and small breasts. Her hair fell down the sides of her face, a dark colour, almost black. Her eyes were a light violet and her lips gave way to a playful smile. The prince's eyes met hers first, and then left as he turned back to the view.

"You wished to see me, my prince?"

Allyria Dayne swept onto the balcony, her flowing, purple dress sweeping the ground as she walked.

"I came as you instructed. Maester Caleotte has been most kind to me. I am afraid that I got most lost, and that he helped me find my way."

The fat maester nodded his head to them, a faint smile on his own lips.

"Then I thank him for his dutiful care of my guests. I will see you later, Caleotte. Leave us so that we may talk in peace."

Caleotte left then, and Allyria's haunting eyes turned to Areo.

"And what of your captain?"

"Areo stays."

Allyria let out a small giggle at that, putting her own hand on top of Doran's right as she knelt by the side of his chair.

"I have heard tales in Starfall of the noble prince's captain and how he stands steadfast and ever watchful. I never expected him to cut such a noble figure himself."

There was something contradictory in her eyes and her smile. She looked like something sad or morose was constantly plaguing her from just her eyes, yet her mouth was playful and seductive.

"A prince is only as good as the men that he has around him. Areo gives good counsel."

"And your maester does not?"

"There are some things that a Maester should not be privy too."

"Such as?"

"War."

This took Allyria back. She frowned slight, surprised by something, before resorting to her smile and giggle.

"We are fighting no war at the moment, my prince."

"I disagree, my lady. We are constantly fighting our own wars. Our wars for justice and for revenge."

"And what does that have to do with little me?"

"You lost family to them too, did you not? Your brother slain by the wolf of Stark when you were a girl."

Allyria looked away from her prince and away from him. Did she mourn the brother that she had barely known?

"I spend my days and nights wishing that my family had lived, but each of them found happiness before they died, and I still have my nephew."

"And can I count on your nephew's support when war comes?"

"If war comes then you have my word. But let us talk of matters less dark."

Doran closed his eyes, a smile on his weathered face. Another breeze came in across the balcony.

"My nephew seeks a wife. He is but thirteen, yet he is lord. Your niece, Elia, is of an age with him. He speaks her often, or so my late betrothed told me. They knew each other in the Water Gardens."

"Elia is unavailable."

The prince's eyes had snapped open, but still he stared out over the courtyard.

"She is already spoken for?"

"Yes."

Allyria looked more pleased at this than disappointed.

"I had not heard. Who is her intended?"

"The Bastard of Godsgrace. Daemon Sand."

Allyria pouted at this, an expression that only made her more beautiful.

"That is disappointing. Ned will not be happy to hear of it. I must write to him at once. Maybe he can wed Lady Blackmont's daughter instead. It will have to do."

"It will."

Allyria looked away from Doran's face then, instead following his gaze and looking over the courtyard.

"You watch the boys train?"

"I do."

"Why?"

Doran didn't answer this, instead just carrying on staring into the distance. He wanted to be at the Water Gardens, Areo knew that. He looked out her as he did there, but he missed the cries of the children and the splashes of the water.

Areo missed the blood oranges that grew there. He missed their taste and their colour. Sunspear was colder and darker, with not much to liven up the corridors. Not since his little princess left.

"I brought you something from Starfall, my prince. I heard that you had a fondness for them, and our wetnurse told me that we had a particularly good crop this year."

She produced a blood orange from her dress, placing it into the lap of the prince, who peeled it himself, his hands shaking slightly as he did.

He ate half of the orange, before holding the rest out to him.

Areo took it, confused.

"What is it I should do with this, my prince?"

"Eat, Areo. You are my captain. I must have you eat."

So he did.

The orange tasted bitter, yet sweet at the same time. Its juice warmed his throat and it felt good, ridding him of thirst.

"I thank you, Lady Allyria. We have discussed all we need to. It would please me if you sit at the high table for tonight's feast."

She rose from her kneeling position, elegant and graceful.

"It would be my pleasure, my prince."

She courtsied o them, her eyes connecting with his as she left.

There was silence after that, with the prince returning to his staring.

It wasn't long after before Caleotte returned, changing the prince's bandages again.

Doran dismissed him during that, keeping the maester close, with Martell men at the gate. He had handpicked Doran's guards from Manfrey's best trained recruits. They were all good men and true, loyal to their prince and to Dorne.

The halls of Sunspear were quiet as he walked along them.

He thought of how it had been before, when his little princess was younger and his mistress still lived here. His prince had been able to walk then, with no need of his chair.

Oberyn had walked here too, his girls gathered at his knees as he taught them to fight. Obara, the warrior, Nymeria, the lady, Tyene, the innocent. Sarella, the girl who always wanted to be a maester. They had been different in so many ways, but the prince had loved them all.

And they had loved him too, so much that they were willing to risk a war in his honour.

Oberyn had been a good fight. He had helped to keep Areo's wits sharp and his blade sharper, but the two had been close. He had been his prince's brother.

He didn't go straight to his chamber, instead wandering the corridors of the castle remembering days gone by.

Dorne was not ready for war, yet that was what the smallfolk clamoured for. They wanted to fight, and they wanted revenge. His prince wanted that too, but he knew war would be a devastation.

"What use is a war for revenge if it assures your own destruction?"

Those had been the words that Doran had said to him as they looked out over the courtyard after Lady Nym left with the prince and princess.

He was cautious, he always had been. He knew his own limits and the limits of his people.

The Fowlers and the Dalts had called for war, and others had joined their rally. The Ullers of the Hellholt, the Allyrions of Godsgrace and the Blackmonts of Blackmont had all sent ravens to the prince, urging him for war.

Soon his wandering came to an end, and he returned to the feast hall of the Old Palace. Four tables were laid lengthways in the room, with a fifth placed on the high dais. His prince already sat there, Caleotte fussing around him, as usual.

He took his place behind the prince, holding his bride in his hands as he waited to protect him.

The seat next to the prince was empty. Usually it would be occupied by the little princess, if not reserved for his own mistress.

Others filed into the hall. Manfrey Martell and the aged Ricasso. Ser Manfrey sat on the high dais, with Ricasso on the lower tables.

Ser Deziel Dalt came too. He was a plain faced man, not ugly, but not handsome either. He was a knight, but not as good with a sword as his brother.

The room was almost full when Allyria Dayne graced them with her presence.

She had changed from earlier, wearing a shorter dress of purple, lined with gems from the Dornish mountains.

The prince offered her the seat next to him, which caused surprise from some of the gathered nobles.

She took the place graciously, sitting down and kissing her prince's hand. They talked of pleasantries throughout the evening, not once talking of Edric or the possibility of war. There were too many eyes here, and too many ears.

The food was hot, he could smell that, and he knew the Dornish style. He would eat later. The cook would save some food for him and deliver it to his chamber.

The feast winded down, and many of the prince's men retired to their chambers.

"I will sleep on the balcony, Areo. I want to look out over the city."

Caleotte nodded at this, and said that he would change the bandages again before the prince slept. And so the three of them began the journey back to the balcony.

When they reached a flight of stairs then Areo would take his prince in his arms, and carry him like a newly born babe. Caleotte would struggle with the chair.

There was a cool night wind when he finally got his prince to his preferred place. The breeze wafted across them and brought with it the taste of salt from the sea. The lights of the Shadow City twinkled beyond the walls, where many Dornish families would still be eating their meals.

His prince was silent as he left him, looking out towards those twinkling lights that looked like stars.

The climb down to his chambers was a long one, and took him through many of the corridors that he had wandered before the feast. He thought of his prince, and what he would do without him. They both relied on the other. There was a close bond between them, even if Areo was just a common guard.

He rested his hand on the stone wall, feeling the cold chill pass through his body. Dornish nights could be colder than anything he had ever known.

His own chamber was lightly furnished. It was usually dark and cold, with little access to light. As he entered he rested his bride against the wall.

She was laid on top of his bed, a playful smile on her pretty face and her haunting eyes looking back at his. She rose from her place.

She wore nothing more than a shift, entirely see through. He did not avert his eyes. He was married to his axe.

"Sweet captain, I have waited here since the feast ended. You have taken your time, but I am glad you are here now."

She rested her hand on his, using her soft fingers to feel his strong, calloused flesh.

"What do you want of me, Lady Allyria?"

She traced a circle in his palm with her index finger, sometimes going fast and sometimes slow.

"Is that not obvious, captain. I heard tell of the muscled man that Doran Martell had guarding him, and I knew that I must see how much of a man he was."

"I am a married man."

"So I have heard. My brother told me tales of the Bearded Priests of Norvos and how they married their axes. He respected that. Arthur knew how to give up love for the betterment of the realm."

She spoke of Arthur Dayne, the legendary Sword of the Morning. A fight with him would have been spectacular.

"I live and die at my post, taking no other women. That is my oath to the prince."

"You sound like a brother of the Watch. Arthur spoke to me of them too. He admired them for their commitment."

She moved her hands to his hips, swaying as she did.

"Do you want to see me as I was born, captain?"

She smiled at that, a wicked smile full of mischief, and slipped off her shift, allowing it to fall to her ankles. She kicked it away gently, smiling up at him, now entirely naked.

She cupped his hand and moved it to touch her breast. He did not fight. He did not wish to strike this woman.

"Let me see what kind of axe you possess between your legs, captain."

She moved her other hand to his breeches, slipping it in and feeling his cock.

"You are soft. Should I wait, or visit again tomorrow?"

He didn't respond, instead staring straight at the wall opposite him. When he did look down at her he saw that her eyes were sadder than they had been before, as if something new was weighing on her mind and causing her to worry.

She leaned up and kissed him softly on his hard lips. Hers were supple and gentle, as her skin was everywhere. He liked the feel, even if he knew that she shouldn't. He lived to serve his prince, not to do this.

"You are a good man, captain."

She pulled away, her eyes meeting his for the last time that evening. Without another word, she left, leaving her garments behind, strewn across the floor.

He turned to the door, but she had already gone. He swallowed with nerves. That had not been something that he had expected. She was a lady of Starfall, and he lived to serve.

He lived to serve, he lived to serve. That was all. He obeyed his prince's instructions.

His throat started to tighten then, and it felt uncomfortable.

He had trouble swallowing, and there was no change. It only worsened. He realised too late what was happening.

This was poison.

His first thought was of his prince. Had the poison been in the orange that they had shared? Would Doran Martell already be dead?

He grabbed at his throat as he ran, leaving his axe behind. The stairs slowed him. He struggled to breathe now. He pulled himself onwards.

He lived to protect. He lived to serve. He lived to obey.

Servants looked at him with queer expressions as he ran past. It was not often that he was separate from Doran, and he hardly broke a sweat then.

Now he was running madly through the corridors and up the stairs.

Maester Caleotte was leaving the balcony as he arrived, the door left open behind him.

He fell to his knee, clutching at his throat, struggling for breath.

His prince sat in his chair, staring out across the courtyard and into the darkness of night. He was safe.

He managed to get one last breath into his lungs, and used it to think about the things he would miss.

He would miss his little princess smiling and laughing. He would miss sparring with Manfrey, and the jokes made by the blind steward. He would miss the children of the Water Gardens asking to play with his bride.

He would miss his prince.

He had always imagined a death in service to his prince or his princess, fighting on the fields of battle for Dorne. That was not to be. Not ever.

He was killed by politics.


	10. The Golden Lord

He walked in to the Small Council chamber to find it empty. He was the first to arrive.

The chamber was newly decorated, the first act of the new Lord Regent. He had inlaid gold into the pillars and had the chairs replaced with new ones, crafted from the wood of the Tarly forests.

Each member of the council had been assigned a place, with their chair being marked out by having the sigil of their house on the back, created in precious jewels.

The golden tree of the Rowans signified his seat, and he took it. He was in the middle and on the left, sat opposite where the new Grand Maester would take his seat.

The Council had been thrown into ruin in recent weeks. The previous Hand of the King had fled the city after the arrest of the Queen Mother, and the former Master of Coin was missing in the Free Cities.

With the murder of the Lord Regent and the Grand Maester they had need to replace almost all the former members.

He had been recalled from Storm's End as soon as possible, giving over the command to Lord Titus Peake. Mace Tyrell had named him Master of Coin, taking the position from Harys Swyft. He knew that the Rowans were a rich house, and that it was wise to give this responsibility to one amongst them.

The next man to enter sat on his right.

He was old and thin, with a weathered face and calloused hands. Igon Vyrwel had ridden to King's Landing as quickly as he could when he was called. He had arrived only the day before. Mace had named him as Master of Laws and justiciar.

The two were silent after that. He found Igon to be quiet and thoughtful, but slow at the same time. He was no politician.

The next two came in together. The first man had a rounded face with a long, thin beard. He wore the grey robes of a Maester, with his chain hanging by his neck. He took his place opposite him, his companion sitting on his left.

The other man was thin and balding, with stooped shoulders. His hair was orange, in the tufts that remained. He sat on a chair that had grapes embroidered into the back. This was Paxter Redwyne, the new Master of Ships.

The new Grand Maester had served at the Arbor for many years. He had been chosen by the Citadel under the recommendation of Mace.

Tallad the Tall was the next man to come in. The knight had a shock of brown hair, and stood a good head taller than any other man in the room.

He watched as Tallad and Paxter talked, mostly about the problems in the Reach, and how they were being dealt with.

Horas and Hobber Redwyne were sailing the bulk of the Tyrell fleet around Dorne whilst Garlan and Garth the Gross had been given command of the Tyrell land based army.

Humfrey Waters, however, had been sent to deal with the Baratheons on land, dispatched to maintain the siege of Storm's End. Tallad had taken over command of the City Watch in his place, and had been granted a place on the Small Council into the bargain.

The last two members of the council that they were expecting came together.

They all rose for the newly appointed Lord Regent and his Hand of the King, but they were quickly told to seat themselves.

Mace Tyrell had looked handsome in his youth, but time had caused him to grow larger in stomach than it had in muscle. His Hand was quite the opposite. Randyll Tarly was dour and lean where his lord was round and jolly. The two men could hardly be more different.

Even here, they sat at opposite ends of the wooden table, looking down the lines at the gathered nobles and knights.

There was one empty seat, the one to his right. That was reserved for the Master of Whisperers, who was not expected to be in attendance this session.

Randyll Tarly leaned back into his chair, where Paxter Redwyne hunched himself over the table, his eyes scanning the room, a smile dancing upon his thin lips.

"Welcome, my friends, to the first meeting of the _new_ small council. I am hopeful that we can raise this fine institution up under my leadership, and move away from the bastards and cravens that one of my predecessors chose to appoint. Let us get down to the important decisions that we must face."

"The king has asked me to commend Lord Randyll Tarly for securing the release of my daughter and his wife, the good Queen Margaery. Our dear friend the High Septon has apologised for his lack of attendance, but we intend to show the smallfolk that the crown and faith are in line together once again. Do we have any suggestions?"

"We could host a feast?"

It was Tallad who piped up first, a young boy eager to impress those that surrounded him.

"A feast in the current climate may seem gaudy to the smallfolk."

Paxter Redwyne flicked his tongue against his lips as he spoke, wetting them.

"A tourney, however... if we were to open it up to the smallfolk and sparrows?"

Ballabar stroked his beard as he spoke, giving him an air of authority in the situation. Paxter nodded along to this, and Tallad beamed, as if he had started a winning idea.

He had to speak up then, anxious that they never got ahead of themselves.

"I fear a tourney may be most audacious. The crown is in severe debt to the Iron Bank that the queen mother never solved, and we still owe House Lannister many stags."

"If a tourney celebrating my daughter's release is what the smallfolk clamour for, then I am sure that House Tyrell can burden the cost of such an affair, Lord Mathis, although I thank you for your interjection. Are the gold cloaks ready for such an event, Ser Tallad?"

"Oh yes, sir. I have had to make some changes from Ser Humfrey's system, but we should be fine. I am sure that we can make it work."

The boy sounded more confident than his words let on. He was eager to impress, and it came across.

"That is excellent news. We shall host a tourney then. Five hundred stags to the winner of the tilts and two hundred to the victors in the melee and archery respectively. I will leave it to Ser Tallad and Ser Igon to organise the details."

The thin knight to the left of him nodded in response.

"The next issue we must approach is one of far less joy. The murders of Grand Maester Pycelle and Ser Kevan Lannister. It has been arranged that Pycelle be buried in the Great Sept, as befits a man who gave so many years of service, and that a procession will return Ser Kevan's bones to Casterly Rock, but it is imperative that we find their killer."

Randyll Tarly coughed then, his eyes trained on Mace.

"Yes, yes. I leave that job to Lords Randyll and Mathis. I trust that the two of you will find me a culprit. You both know who I think is responsible."

It was common knowledge that Mace suspected that Cersei Lannister was responsible for the murder of her uncle and the former Grand Maester. The queen mother did have a reasonable motive but very little opportunity. Still, there were many hired thugs in this city who would love to take her Lannister gold.

Just then the door opened a crack, and then a man slipped in. He was dressed in shabby grey robes, with a tall but crooked figure. He shambled his way over to the seat on Mathis' left, seating himself behind the Lord Regent.

"I am sorry for my lateness, my lords, I had to...ah...visit somebody."

Mace turned to the man slowly, his eyes having changed from sparkling to hatred in an instance.

"I thought I made it clear that you weren't welcome here, craven. Return to your lion bitch patron and do not return till you can give me answers."

"You did...ah...get your point across, my lord. Unfortunately, my patron had issues that she wished representation on, and you have not yet found a new Master of Whisperers."

"More is the pity."

Randyll's thin voice cut through the conversation, and his comment received a forced laugh from Paxter and Tallad, but silence from Igon.

"Very well. But I will not promise that anything you say will be heeded."

Mace turned away from the new arrival, and back to his friends and allies.

"We also have been brought the sad news that Ser Jaime Lannister has been killed in the Riverlands."

Randyll leaned back at this, a bored expression back on his face.

"The Kingslayer is dead. What issue is that for us?"

"Well, as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard he deserves some recognition for his service, as well as the fact that a replacement should be chosen swiftly. In times like these it is possible that one of our many enemies may choose to strike and kill sweet, young Tommen."

Qyburn had a thin smile on his own face as he began to speak.

"The king has made it quite clear to his mother that his preferred choice as successor would be Ser Osmund Kettleblack."

Ballabar frowned at this.

"Is Ser Osmund not currently residing in a dungeon within the Great Sept?"

Mace Tyrell sighed. It was a deep sigh, as if something in what he was about to say disappointed him.

"Ser Osmund and Ser Osfryd have both been released from their prison cells, as negotiated by the crown. The Faith have retained Ser Osney, who they intend to execute. Ser Osmund is, at the moment, a knight of the Kingsguard."

Randyll Tarly looked up from the table.

"But one still awaiting trial. He will not serve as Lord Commander. Ser Meryn Trant and Boros Blount are the senior members of the guard, but both are past their best, and Blount is even more incompetent now than he was when he was first appointed. Suited for nothing more than royal foodtaster now."

Tallad spoke up hesitantly.

"My lord, may I ask, how do we know that Ser Jaime is dead."

"The account of one of his squires. A boy named Lewys Piper. He claims that he saw Ser Jaime leave the Lannister camp with a woman. When followed the woman guided him to a tree full of hanged men. She offered Ser Jaime a rope and he took it. Then the boy fled."

"The woman was described as tall and ugly, more like a man. She wore full armour and carried a sword with a lion head pommel. We are dealing with Brienne of Tarth."

Lord Tarly took over from where Mace left off.

"We should have a price put on the maiden's head."

"If she travels though the Riverlands then I doubt she is a maiden still."

Redwyne's quip earned him a laugh from Mace, Tallad and Ballabar, but the others remained quiet.

He himself had met the Maid of Tarth once.

He remembered coming across her under the walls of Highgarden, striking at a sack of straw like it was the Stranger himself, come for her. She had impressed him more than most soldiers did. Many knights gained their title and held it, without showing any willingness to live up to their promises and strive for better, but not her.

There were not many in the realm that he would expect to best her in a fight. Both of the Cleganes, when they had been alive, and Sam Stone of Runestone. Ser Jaime when he had both his hands, as well as Barristan the Bold.

He had asked her why she practiced so hard when they were so far from their destination, and she had told him that she was a woman, and that practicing was all she could do to get away from the men.

She had seemed angry, and that reflected in how she struck at the dummy. Something had upset her and caused a monstrous rage. That was war. It was hardly ever a pleasant experience.

"We will leave the matter of the Lord Commander for now then. I have issued a document, approved by the king, that names Ser Bayard Norcross to the spare place on the order. He is a loyal man who has sworn to defend the king."

"I hold no objection to this."

"Nor do I."

"Nor me. Bayard is a fine man and a finer knight. He deserves it."

Paxter, Ballabar and Tallad all affirmed their support of the young knight. He thought that Bayard was an appointment to appease the Reach lords, and to get Mace another set of eyes in the order.

He was right not to trust Kettleblack, of course, and Trant and Blount were almost definitely pions of the queen. The other, Robert Strong, had a strange aura. He wasn't sure that he had ever heard the man speak.

Bayard was no better a knight than half of those sworn to the king. But he was a knight from the Reach, and that was what Mace wanted.

"The last thing we must discuss is how we deal with the dragon invader. We have sent Ser Humfrey with the Rowan and Tarly army to shut him off from Storm's End, and Lords Bushy and Wythers move a smaller force down the western side of the mountains."

Randyll Tarly interjected.

"If they get attacked then do not expect victory. Bushy is a fat craven and Wythers will be blind drunk most of the time. You should have sent Jon Fossoway. The man is loyal and sober. He would have led well."

"I would have sent Garlan and Jon, but they are both occupied with the more pressing threat of the Ironborn. Garlan writes to me that he has eyes and ears in Oldtown, ready to give him news if an attack seems imminent. Lord Leyton proves of very little use."

Leyton Hightower would be an old man by now, he thought. He had been weathered at the best of times, with a fine lined from stress and worry. He had been fifty when he had vanished into his tower. That had been twelve years ago.

No-one had known what had caused him to hide away. He had always been a shy man, but he had not been seen by his people in more than a decade. Some say that the Mad Maid had whispered stories of Snarks and Grumkins into his ear, and in his own madness he had listened to her.

"Horas and Hobber sent me a raven as they passed Cape Wrath. They tell of a build-up of pirates in the Narrow Sea and the Stepstones. A man named Saan."

"An old family. I fought his father during the Ninepenny Kings."

Igon Vyrwel had a thin and rasping voice, typical of an elderly man. In his prime he had been strong, but he had grown too old to be much use on the battlefield.

"Indeed. The Sans are a notorious family of pirates. They are not the only people haunting the Narrow Sea, however. I hear whispers that the royal fleet has been sighted docked on Bloodstone."

"The Bastard of Driftmark?"

"Yes. Should I tell Hobber and Horas to engage him?"

Mace frowned at this, slowly pondering the question. It was Randyll that answered.

"The bastard boy is not our pressing concern. Send them to deal with the squid king. We will bring Waters to justice after our other wars are won."

Mace frowned even more at this, a look of almost anger passing over his face, but it was gone as quickly as it arrived, nodding at his Hand's instructions. The anger had gone unnoticed to everyone else at the table, it seemed.

"That is all I have need of you for today, my friends. You all have your own responsibilities that you should be getting to now, I would imagine. Go, and we shall convene again in a few days' time."

Tallad was the first to leave, Ballabar and Paxter with him. Igon left by himself, cutting a sullen figure.

He picked his papers up from the table and moved to go, but Randyll stopped him.

"I trust that you are not so busy that we cannot begin our investigation, Lord Rowan. Come, I have a man that I am most interested in talking to."

As Randyll led the way-out Mathis turned, and what he saw surprised him.

Mace Tyrell stood by the windows, looking out over the courtyard of the Red Keep. Stood by his side was the Bloody Maester, whispering thoughts into his ear.

Then the door closed behind him, and he found Randyll Tarly's hand upon it.

"Let us not keep our minds focused on things that do not concern us, Lord Rowan. We have a murder to solve, and that man's business is not involved within it."

"With all due respect, my lord Hand, should we not be treating him as a suspect."

"Qyburn has an alibi for the time that the murder took place. We are about to visit a man that does not have such. Are you coming or not?"

The Hand of the King had the kind of voice that made requests sound like commands, and make commands sound like life or death orders. He did not want to cross him.

"I will come. Who is it that we visit?"

Randyll smiled grimly at the question.

"Ser Osmund Kettleblack."

The response was a simple one, but it answered many questions.

Ser Osmund was a well-known pawn of the queen mother. If he had killed Pycelle and Lannister then it had been on her orders. This was an investigation to pacify Mace. Did Randyll truly think that Cersei was responsible for her uncle's death?

The walk to the White Sword Tower was a quiet one.

He saw Creighton Longbough ride at quintain with Mark Mullendore. He saw Lambert Turnberry whispering into the ear of a young serving girl, no doubt telling her tales of his supposedly lost eye. The dark skinned Jalabhar Xho practiced his archery across from the riders.

They were those that had been accused, all released from their prison cells, as no evidence had been found against them. Others had not fared so well.

The old harpist had died under the inquisition of the Faith, and the other Bard had gone mad. The man had cut his own throat the same day that he was released.

Randyll Tarly was not a man for unnecessary conversation, and so he was left to his thoughts, free from being distracted by the man.

Kevan Lannister had been found with a crossbow wound in his stomach, and many smaller stab wounds. If Ser Osmund had been his attacker then why would he have not just used his sword? Why the need for a ranged weapon followed by knives? A ploy, maybe, to frame another.

It was possible that the queen mother wanted them to believe that her brother was responsible. The imp had killed his father with a crossbow, would he have been capable of doing the same to his uncle? Tyrion Lannister's distaste for the old Grand Maester was fairly public knowledge.

Who else would have had the motive? Mace had been able to replace the two men with others that found their loyalty to him, but he had also commissioned an investigation. Why run that much of a risk?

It would be helpful to have the thoughts of the other counsellors, but Lord Merryweather had fled, and Harys Swyft was nowhere to be found. There was no potential lead there.

His thoughts on the matter carried his feet as far as the entrance to the slender tower that housed the Kingsguard. He had never been in.

Once, it had been the home to the finest knights that the realm could boast. Ryam Redwyne and Raymont Baratheon, Criston Cole and Steffon Darklyn, Arthur Dayne and Gerold Hightower. It was not so now.

The first thing that they saw as they entered the lowest floor of the tower was Ser Boros Blount, slouched in a chair before a dying fire. The man wore no armour on his top, and was heating his pale skin. He had fallen asleep a long while before. They did not see fit to wake him.

"A paper shield, that one. Too old to do the White Cloak the honour that it deserves."

On the second floor, they found the cells of three of the order. This was where Blount slept, with the others belonging to Loras Tyrell and Balon Swann.

"Mace would name his son Lord Commander if he could. I hear that Loras has left Dragonstone of his own will, though whether he will survive the journey back is another matter. The boy was foolish in attacking the castle head on."

Randyll looked as grim as ever when he talked about Ser Loras.

He had heard that the injuries that the Knight of Flowers had sustained were too much, and that he was almost succumbed to them. Maybe he was wrong.

The next floor was more interesting.

They found nothing worth their search in the cell that belonged to Meryn Trant, but Robert Strong's was different. He kept it bare, except for a bed in the corner, unused, and a large sword hanging over the window. It was too tall for even Mathis to hold properly.

They found Kettleblack laid on his bed when they arrived, staring at his ceiling. His head turned to them the moment they walked in, as if he had been expecting them. He must have heard them enter the other rooms.

"Lords Tarly and Rowan...to what do I owe this...surprise."

"Seat yourself up when talking to your elders, boy. We are not here to watch you sleep."

Osmund grunted at this, pulling himself up so that he was sat upon the edge of the bed.

"Now, I want you to tell me everything that you know about the assassination of Ser Kevan Lannister and Grand Maester Pycelle."

"I know nothing of it. If you will remember, I was occupying a cell at the time with my brother. Neither of us could have been involved."

"You defend Osfryd?"

"I say that he has an alibi."

Randyll shook his head slightly at this. He had surely expected this response.

"You not doing the act doesn't mean you don't know who did. Was it one of your other brothers? Trant? Blount? Strong?"

"I know not of the actions of Ser Robert Strong. The man is a mystery to me. Blount is too much of a lazy bastard to bother any act of murder. The sight of blood would likely make him faint. Trant was probably rutting some whore on the Street of Silk."

"So, it was none of them? Do you know of any other men?"

Osmund grimaced, although it was difficult to tell. The man's beard had grown to cover most of the lower half of his face during his stay in the Faith's cells.

"I know of nothing, and I see no reason for me telling you if I did."

"I may be able to save Osney from the execution that the High Septon has sentenced him to."

Osmund had a dry smile on his face then, and he stood before he started talking again. He walked across the small room slowly as he talked.

"Osney is a dead man, and rightfully so. He did something stupid and he messed up. I love my brother, my lords, but I will not be tricked into anything. I know no names that may help you. Now I must ask you to leave. I have to mourn for my brother."

He left first, Randyll following shortly behind, a scowl on his face.

"We found less here than I had hoped coming into it. I can't tell if he is hiding something or being naturally obstinate. That is the problem with upjumped sellswords."

Just then they were interrupted by the sound of clanking armour, and then the intimidating frame of Robert Strong rose from the floor below them. He stood taller than them both, dressed in large plated, white armour, his cloak falling down his back. Even it was longer than those of the other men.

Following him was a woman with the hair of gold and green eyes. A lion hidden away in a place like this. The queen mother had grown rounder on the waist with age, and was not as beautiful as she had been in her youth.

Even then, he looked much older than her. It was hard to believe that they were of a similar age.

"Lords Tarly and Rowan, I did not expect to see you here."

Cersei Lannister wore a sincere smile, and her eyes were serene.

"Did you also come by to give your best wishes to our dear friend, Ser Osmund. I was most sad to hear that Ser Osney will not be allowed the Mother's mercy. The gods can be so cruel at times."

She stepped closer to them, putting her hand out and placing it on Randyll's chest.

"It is cruel to keep such a fine man from his adoring wife, too. I bet you miss her much, Lord Randyll, you too with yours, Lord Mathis. It may be that I can make that feeling go away, if you would help me in some ways too."

Randyll pushed her hand away from his green jerkin.

"I would not help you with anything if it meant my life, woman. You are worse than a common whore. You think that by spreading your legs you can corrupt the king's men. Maybe that works for your sellswords and your Maester's, but it won't work on me."

She moved to slap him then, but he caught her wrist and bent it back, causing her to wince in pain. It was only when the knight behind her went for his sword that he let her go.

"You are an old whore, past her prime. You would fit in more on the Street of Silk than the Red Keep. Stay away from me, woman. I will have no part of your games."

He left then, leaving him alone with the towering knight and the glowering queen.

He watched Randyll Tarly leave.


	11. The Lost Princess

Ser Justin Massey was gone.

He had been sent away by his king. He had been sent all the way to Braavos. Now she was alone.

The man had never liked her for her, more for her name, but at least he had visited and given her food when she needed it. That was more than could be said for the other supposedly noble knights that Stannis Baratheon commanded.

He had been talkative, and had treated her as more of an equal than the others. He had almost convinced her that he wasn't her enemy.

She had looked for his warmth amongst the cold, when her companions had been taken away from her.

She had seen them return recently, almost all of them, but she had not been allowed to greet them. The bear lady had pulled her away.

She had wanted to hear Tris tell her stories of the Ironborn of old, to smell the stench of blood on Grimtongue, to feel Qarl take her.

They were her crew, and she had failed them outside Deepwood Motte. She had failed them so far away from the sea.

The banker had brought them with him.

He had been a thin man with no muscle, a gaunt face and dark eyes. The cold had affected him less than the others, as if he was used to it.

She had disliked him from the moment she had seen him. Behind his thin face lay the eyes of a schemer. He was as un-ironborn as they came.

It had been him that had taken Justin.

Stannis had commanded his knight to ride with the banker, to Braavos, where he may find an army for his king. Justin was quicker of tongue than Godry or Richard. He was a better choice to convince men to a cause.

He had left her with the Mormont lady.

Alysane Mormont was not a kind woman, although at least she wasn't a wet one. The Mormonts of Bear Island were no friends to the Greyjoys of Pyke, and this one reveled in her chance to express dominance.

In a way, she respected the women of Bear Island. They were not afraid to defend their families with axe and sword. They had been forced into this, of course, by Ironborn and wildling raids on the island. That was the source of their distaste for kraken.

Alysane was better than the others, however.

She would rather have the lady bear on guard duty than Clayton Suggs or Godry Farring. They were both brutes. Robin Potter was little better. Smaller and smarter, but nastier. She would take her luck with Alysane any day.

Mormont had even stood for her when Farring had wanted her executed. It had been her that convinced Stannis that she was worth keeping.

Right now, however, she wished for anyone else.

Alysane could snore louder than any man, and she was trying her hardest to prove it this night. Every time she got near to sleep there was a growl behind her, as if a bear had sneaked it's way into the tent.

What was worse was that when she did sleep, her dreams were mismatched and complicated. She saw things that she remembered from the past, like the day Theon had been born, or Rodrik's funeral. That had been one of the few days that she had cried.

Her father had told her that tears were not for Ironborn, that she was all that the Greyjoys had now that Theon had gone. She had to live up to the kraken, and one day she would rule the seas.

Well, that birthright had been taken from her by her uncle.

Euron Greyjoy had taken her throne and her island. He had taken her people and her fleet. Whilst he won glory, she won nothing but the scorn of her kin. She was a lost princess, with no lands and no home and no friends.

It took her a while, but eventually she did lose herself to sleep. Her eyes closed firm and darkness washed over her.

Then it was replaced by light, warm light from the flames of a fire. Except, something about this seemed manevolent, like it was watching her back and laughing, in whatever way a fire could laugh.

Suddenly the fingers of flame turned cold, as if frozen. Where they had danced before they did not now. The ice that they had become changed form twice, first into a growling wolf, and then into a soaring crow. The two animals then merged, and she gazed into the eyes of a mighty wolf creature, with large, magestic wings.

Then there was another wolf, this one smaller than the others. It stood proudly within a castle made of snow, but then it died, whimpering. It's body was replaced by a stag first, and then a lion, and then a kraken.

The gold beast then vanished, replaced by darkness. Then she saw a man's face, sharp and pointed. He crawled through the darkness in stained clothes. Behind him came another man, this one's face blocked from her sight by a hood.

Her sights twisted again, this time into a more monstrous visage. Her uncle.

The Crow's Eye stood aboard his ship, looking out over the broiling sea. In the distance was land, high cliffs, with a castle built precariously. Pyke.

It was late at night, dark and chill, and the castle was quiet, dark except for two candles. One was in the room that would be her father's solar, the other just across.

Her father's light started to move then, as if someone was carrying it.

It approached the other candle light, then it flickered, and then it went out. Euron Greyjoy turned away, a half smile on his face.

"The deed is done, boys. It was just as she said it would be."

She called out to him, ready to accuse him of bloody murder, but no sound came from her lips. She was as silent as one of the mutes that served as his crew, her tongue lost to her.

It was his twisted smile that brought her to her senses, a cold sweat on her brow. Alysane slept still, snoring as loud as any bear.

She couldn't be around her captor now, not after what she had just seen.

She had witnessed her father die, thrown from the bridge by some goon of her uncle's. She had suspected the Crow's Eye to be involved, but she had hoped that it was not so. How could a man have it in him to murder his own brother?

Stannis had given her free reign of his camp. There was no chance of escape, not with guards posted everywhere.

Besides, even if she did get away, they would get back at her by burning her friends and crew. She could not have them die like that, not so far away from the islands that they called home.

They had sailed to Deepwood Motte for her, risked everything for her and she had paid them back with failure. She was nothing. She couldn't even protect her own brother.

She had not seen Theon since the first day. Godry had forbidden it. He had been worried that they would cook up filthy Greyjoy plots together, or that was the reason that Alysane had given her.

He had not looked well when she had seen him, broken and destroyed. There had been little of her baby brother left in him.

She had thought of their mother after that. How she asked for Theon to be returned to her. She would not recognise her own son if he was given to her, not now. She would be driven to madness by the death of another son, whilst the boy still lived.

She carried on, trudging on through the snow and the darkness, a cold wind biting into the parts of her skin that stayed open to it.

She had barely seen the man in front of her before she had walked into the back of him.

Neither of them fell to the ground, but he turned around like a flash and grabbed her by the hand. When she looked into the man's eyes she saw the large grey eyes of Tristifer Botley, but they were different to usual. Something was haunting them, some memory or thought. He was no longer handsome in the darkness, more terrifying.

"My princess."

He looked down upon her, his voice flat, holding none of the emotion that he usually reserved for her.

"You should not wander late at night."

He looked away from her again, turning his back on her. This was not the Tris Botley that she remembered from their childhood, nor the one that had talked with her at Deepwood Motte.

"You should not turn your back upon your captain, Botley."

"You are captain of nothing, Asha. A lost princess with no crew, no ship and no heart."

So that was what this was all about. He was still upset that she had rejected him. He loved her for whom she had been, not what she had become.

He was right, in a way though. She did have nothing now. Was she better off as the Ironborn warrior woman that her father had wanted her to be, or the quivering girl that Tris lusted for.

"Does it feel good, princess. Does it feel good knowing that your siren call has lured so many men to their death? How do I reach the Drowned God's halls from here, Asha. I am so far from home, yet you would want me neither here nor there."

"Tris, you are Ironborn. I am Ironb-"

"Is that what you told your father, Asha. He is dead. So is mine. Killed by the same man, like as not. I watched him drowned, Asha. I watched your uncle hold him under the water himself, my uncle at his side."

She had not known. No man should watch his father die as such, not like that.

"You are not the person that you show the world, Asha. I know that. You tell me that the girl that you once were is dead, but I don't believe you. I know that she lives, somewhere inside you. You want to have respect, but you gain none from me by lying to yourself."

Her hand moved to his face without her even thinking. There was a crack as they connected. He didn't fall, nor did he even flinch. There was no hurt in his eyes this time, just the same haunted look.

"You push away those that love you, Asha, so that you can fuck those that use you for power. They don't see who you are, who you were, just the monster that you have become. You are everything that you hated about your father."

He left her in the cold, a rage having fallen over his usually gentle shoulders.

She looked down at the palm that had slapped the boy. Why had she done it? Did she fear what he was telling her, or was it a result of the disrespect that he had shown her? A captain would be well within their rights to discipline a man for actions like those, yet she would not.

Tris still saw her as the innocent child that she had been when they had first met. He saw her as the girl that he had fallen in love with. A lot had changed since then.

Her brothers had been stolen away, her mother had become frail, her father had been murdered. Tris knew of the last one, but none of the others. He still had his mother and brothers. They would be at Lordsport, in the halls of Sawane Botley, a man that she had visited countless times.

Euron would pay for all that he had done. He would pay for the murder of her father, and for Tris' too. He would pay for the mutilation of Baelor Blacktyde. He would pay for stealing the salt throne.

She stood where Tris had stood for a long time, staring out where he had been staring. She had to build up the courage to do what she was about to do. There was no way that he would accept her offer, but it was all she could give.

The king's tent still had a light inside when she made her approach. The large northman stood outside as he always was, dressed in furs of wolf pelt. That one was a traitor to his family, and to be trusted no more than the Crow's Eye. No smile ever passed onto his face, nor did he ever laugh with his companions in arms.

He barred her way, standing much taller than her, and wider too.

"I must see the king. I am Lady Asha of House Gre-"

A voice called from inside the tent. It was stern and to the point. Stannis Baratheon had a trustworthy voice, if a harsh one.

The inside of the tent was still warm, a fire glowing in the hearth, a safe distance from the canvas.

Few knights gathered here this late, just the two that Stannis had bestowed with the white cloak.

Ser Robin Potter was a detestable man. He was small and weaselly, with a hooked nose and thin, lipless smile. He had been a hedge knight before, and you could smell it on him. He looked out of place in fine white armour.

He claimed to be from the Reach, born in an Oldtown brothel, but told that his father was a noble from the Riverlands. Although he had never known his father, so she thought this story made up. He had gone into many details of the man's accomplishments when he had been guarding her.

Somehow, however, she preferred the smaller man to the sullen and brooding presence of Ser Richard Horpe.

The man didn't have an intimidating stance, but gave off a dark aura. He was capable of evil that Robin Potter couldn't even imagine. And this was the man that Stannis had chosen to lead his Kingsguard.

"You come before me late, girl. What is it you want?"

The king was abrupt, as he always was around her. She ignored him at first, turning to the side of the tent, where she knew her brother would be.

"Theon..."

She kneeled next to his side. He was shivering, but not from the cold. He stank. They had left him like this for days.

"Is my brother your pet now?"

Robin Potter laughed at this.

"He could do with some house training first."

She glared at the man, her eyes boring into his filthy skin.

"My brother is a noble born lord of the Iron Islands. He is Ironborn, greenlander. You would do well to remember that."

"Maybe he was Ironborn once, wench. He is not the brother you remember. Swarming with fleas and missing more parts of his body than he has left."

"I would recommend showing more respect or you will end up worse off than he is."

"You dare threaten a knight of the Kingsguard, girl."

Ser Robin went for his steel, but his hand was stopped by the voice of Richard Horpe, who cut through the air like a knife.

"A knight of the Kingsguard shows no steel to a woman when it can be seen, Ser Robin. Do our brothers good service. The wench came to talk to our king, not trade blows with her betters."

Stannis had stayed silent during the entire interchange, his eyes not once leaving her.

"Ser Robin, make sure that Ser Godry is checking the patrols hourly, then you may retire to your tent. I have no further need of three guards."

 _Three guards?_ She counted but two here. That was when she realised that the silent northman had followed her into the room. He stood by the door, as solid a presence here as he was outside, but never giving off the same threatening edge as Robin or Richard.

"My grace, I must protest. That man is not to be trusted. His family are traitors. I-"

"You have received an order from your king, Ser Robin. I hope that you will make a wise choice to act upon it."

Robin's brother stood behind his king, his hand on his hilt, awaiting to see whether the knight would disobey. For a few moments it seemed like the scene had frozen, with the king and his Lord Commander staring at the knight, with the man grimacing back. Eventually he did leave, but slowly and reluctantly.

"You may speak now, wench. Bend your knee before the king and make your case."

She rose from her kneeling position, stroking her brother's head as she did. His hair was brittle and thin, greyed from his experiences.

"I come to offer you a proposition, my lord. I offer you myself."

The knight snorted at this.

"My grace already has you, do you forget this? We defeated you and put you in chains, Lady Greyjoy."

"What you do not have, greenlander, is my Islands. I offer you them. They are my birthright, and I would ask them to deliver them to you."

"Your uncle holds the Islands. How would you deliver them to the king?"

She had thought of this as she stood out in the cold. She could take the islands back, but not without support.

"Give me two hundred men and the Mormont ships. I will land on Harlaw, men will still be loyal to me there. My other uncle..."

"Is not on the island. He has sailed south with the king your people chose. He is a traitor."

Richard Horpe glared at her with distaste as he spoke. The man spat his words at her. She did not know what she had done to madden the man, but he clearly did not favour her.

"My uncle's men still know me. They will bring their ships to my cause."

"What would I gain from you holding the Iron Islands?"

"My men. The army of the Islands is still strong and almost as strong as before this war started."

"The army of the Islands fights the Tyrell force in the south. You taking the Islands would not change that."

She grimaced at this. He was not wrong. She could never give him the full army. The Crow's Eye held them.

"Then weaken my uncle. Endear yourself to the Tyrells by doing what the lions will not. Send your men to fight my uncle. Let me take Pyke and he will have no legitimacy as a king."

"This is an absurd proposition, girl. We are preparing for battle. Why should we give up our men for this foolish hope?"

"Stay silent, Ser Richard."

The king rose from his seat and walked to the opening of his tent.

"It would be a risk, that is true. I have no use of the Mormont fleet at the moment. If you think that you can take them with so few men, then maybe I should not deny you."

The hair around the king's head formed the shadow of a crown, as if the ghost of what he wished laid upon his head.

"I will send Ser Suggs and Ser Foxglove will ride with you, to act as my eyes and make sure you do not betray me. Alysane Mormont will go with you. This serves as an opportunity for me to get her away. I will send three of the five men that Tycho brought with him."

Only three would come? What of the other two?

"Send the highborn, Botley, and the two with the great beards. The other two stay here, to act as security."

Tris would be coming with her then, and the two with the beards must be Rustbeard and Grimtongue. No mention was made of the others.

"I will be keeping your brother here, also. You understand that I cannot let him leave. He is a traitor. Traitor's die."

She swallowed, not turning to look at the thing that Theon had become.

"I understand."

She realised that, in doing this, she had sacrificed her brother to a horrible fate. Theon Greyjoy was already dead, however, and she knew that whatever parts of her brother remained inside his mangled body would welcome the relief of death.

Soon he would be with father, Rodrik and Maron, in the halls of the Drowned God.

The king walked over to her, so that he stood in front of her. She knelt before the man. Her father had once told her that a smart man knew when to kneel.

"I, King Stannis Baratheon, name you, Asha Greyjoy, the rightful Lor- Lady of Pyke. I bestow upon you the territory of the Iron Islands, and entrust you with the responsibility of dealing out the king's justice. I also name you as Warden of the West, in trusting that you will represent myself and protect this coast from our enemies. You may rise and leave us."

She did as she was told, leaving without looking to turn at the thing that was her brother. She could feel the glaring eyes of Ser Richard Horpe digging into the back of her head as she left. He expected betrayal.

The cold night wind bit into her as she left the shelter. The sun was starting to rise by then, and the birds of the North were calling from their trees. A young man bustled past her then, dressed in the grey cloak of the maesters.

The man was Pylos, the man that Stannis had brought north from Dragonstone. He was a young man, quiet and sombre, yet easier on the eye than those that she had known on Pyke. He had seen to her injuries after the battle, yet he had remained silent.

She remembered old Maester Qalen from her days as a child. He had tended her wounds when she had scraped herself on the rocks of the island. She had sailed back to the castle for when he was pushed off out to sea, given the funeral befitting of an Ironborn warrior.

He had been close with her father, having delivered him, as well as all of her uncles. That had been when he had been a young man, and by the time she was of an age that she looked to men, he was old and wrinkled. In that way, Pylos was better to look at, thin and fit, with a trustworthy face and kind eyes.

She returned to her tent, sitting in the entrance, and looking back out over the camp. She was returning home. She would find her mother and aunt in the castle of Harlaw. Then she would take her seat in Pyke.

Tris would follow her, even though he would be unsure of his fate. No matter what he said, he loved her, and would follow her.

There was another that she could count on.

Her uncle, Aeron, had escaped the clutches of the Crow's Eye. Tris thought him to be dead, but if she could find him and convince him to support her, then today they could take Pyke from her other uncle.

And from there, she could take her revenge.


	12. The Imprisoned Eagle

eagard had once been a proud place. A monument to celebrate the successes of the Mallister name, decorated with flags and banners. They had even had artistic tapestries that some said had been created by the Children of the Forest themselves.

He had never believed those stories. He had liked the art though. They had showed a crowned Mallister at the prow of the ship, looking off into the distance.

He had often done the same with the windows in his father's solar, when he had been younger. His father would laugh as he struck all kinds of heroic poses.

Nowadays the solar was one of the many rooms in his family's castle that he was not allowed to enter.

He was allowed to walk the corridors of his home, at least, which was more than could be said for his father and brothers, because the Freys needed a Mallister face that they could use for the smallfolk.

His father had been beloved in Seagard before the outbreak of war. He had been a fair and just ruler, not afraid to be strong when needed, but kind when not.

The new resident commander was anything but.

Black Walder, as he was called behind his back, was a dark man of evil heart and low morals. He bedded married women brought up to him from the town below, he passed unfair justice on those who were innocent. Since his arrival the number of executions in Seagard had doubled.

He sat up in a high chair that he had no right to. He was no lord, he was not even a knight, yet he claimed Seagard as his own.

The man was in his thirties, with a wiry frame and a black beard, peppered with grey hairs. His eyes were a cold blue, like drops of ice that contained fire and hatred.

The worst thing about him, however, was his second name; Frey.

He had been at the Red Wedding, where many good men had been killed. The Freys had brought down the wrath of the gods that day. They would pay for their butchery, and Black Walder would pay more than all.

He had gloated over the captives, showing the heads of those killed to them. He had forced one of the Northerners to kiss the lips of his killed son.

The man was cruel and heartless, yet here he sat, in the high hall of Seagard, a seat that rightfully belonged to Jason Mallister, Warden of the Bay to King Robb Stark.

He had fought by his father's side in aid of the young wolf's cause. He had been present when Tytos Blackwood had retaken Raventree Hall, he had ridden with Marq Piper and Brynden Tully against the Lannister freeriders.

All it had gained him was a cold prison cell. He had escaped that fate, yet now he was held captive in his own home by the very same man that had taken him prisoner.

It had been one of Walder's squires that had woken him from his sleep, a sandy haired boy named Olyvar.

He had vague memories of the boy squiring for the Young Wolf, but had never really known him. They had fought together in the Whispering Wood, at least.

He was thinner now than he had been then, his eyes deeper and bags formed underneath them. The boy was not healthy.

He had told him that he was summoned to the main hall, where the lord of the castle was waiting for his presence.

Walder Frey was in deed waiting, sitting on the chair that he had unjustly stolen, looking out over the room. As he entered a man was pulled from it screaming obscenities. Another one that had come seeking justice but had left with none.

Others had gathered in the large hall, most of them men brought by the occupant to hold his prize. They jeered at him as he walked down the middle. He took note of their names and faces.

Ser Raymund Frey. A man that was slightyl older than Black Walder, with a pinched face and a hooked nose. He preferred to be clean shaven. He trained endlessly in the courtyard, and was one of the few gathered knights that was dangerous with a sword.

Harys, Donnel and Alyn Haigh, all knights. Harys and Donnel were both larger of belly than their younger brother. They spent too much time drinking and japing to pose any sort of physical threat. He was surprised to even see them up this early.

Lord Lucias Vypren, accompanied by his son and good-son. A dangerous man, thin and scheming, as was his own son. Jon Wylde was a different kind of threat. He stood at more than six feet tall, with a bald head and dead eyes. He was slow and stupid, maybe, but he could swing a sword with some power.

The last of Black Walder's cronies stood by his side.

Walton Frey was an old man with a lined face and a crooked nose, where it had been broken during his youth. He was a knight by name, but it was a title not earned by skill as a warrior.

He had been given the rank by his father when he came of age, an honour that Ser Stevron had bestowed on all of his children. Walton preferred the world of money and politics over the troubles of swords and conflicts.

He could have come to like the man, if he had been sent with a kinder job and a better name. As it was, he was a Frey, and the Freys had earned their punishment through their vile actions.

"You should bend the knee before your lord, boy."

Walder Frey called down at him from his seat, as he always did when he called him before him. He did as he was told, remembering the scars that Black Walder had given him when he had declined at first.

"Lord Walder, you called me for something?"

He had learned from past experience that Black Walder's alias should only be used when well out of earshot of the man or his cronies. Donnel Haigh had locked an elderly farmer in the stocks for three days for daring to use it in a tavern. The man had not survived.

"My uncle received a letter earlier today, Mallister. It tells me that I must abandon my castle and return to the Twins. King Tommen has issued an official pardon for you and your father, and unlike noble Lord Jason, I obey the will of my rightful king."

"Your brother, Hoster, is to return to the Twins with me and my men, to serve as my squire. I have half a mind to take your sister with me too, chain her up in some dungeon and pay her nightly visits. What do you think of that, boy?"

His sister, Melara, had not been treated well since the Frey arrival. She was forced to serve meals to Walder's bawdy soldiers, who called for her to lose her clothes. She was no more than thirteen.

Walder himself would have taken her to bed twice, but he had been stopped on both occasions. He would not let his sister fall into the hands of this man, even if he was bluffing.

"My sister is already promised unfortunately, my lord, otherwise we would happily see her wedded to you and unite two _ancient_ houses."

He smiled at the word ancient, knowing that Freys hated to be reminded of their house's relatively recent origins. The Mallisters had been kings in the days of old, when the Freys had still been hedgeknights.

"Segard will truly miss you, my lord. The smallfolk have grown very fond of their kind and gentle saviour."

The man needed his ego massaging, but he could also tell when he was being mocked, and by the look on his face, he had crossed over that boundary.

"Do not play me for a fool, boy. My father taught me how to gut wingless birds like you."

Ah yes, Walder's father. A man that he mentioned near incessantly.

Segard had been the first to receive news of Ryman Frey's death, and Walder had led his knights out almost instantly.

He had left his uncle behind, however.

Ser Walton had been Ryman's little brother, and had mourned his brother's death more than any other. He had refused to eat for three days, starving himself until he went clammy and pale. Eventually they forced him into eating, but the man had never quite recovered.

He wasn't sure what the man had seen in his brother. Ryman had been an arse on almost every occasion that he had encountered him. He spent half his time with whores and the other half drunk, with a fair proportion of overlap.

Walton had grown thin and underfed since his brother's death. He barely had the strength to wake up every morning and walk to his place every morning.

Walder glared at him from his place high above, his eyes cutting into his skin. The man was angered and wanted reason for a fight.

He would not allow blood to be spilled in his father's halls, certainly not any Frey blood that would call down the armies of the Twins and Riverrun.

Ser Emmon Frey held the Tully seat now, in the name of his father. A thin and watery eyed man. His father had welcomed the man to Seagard once, when he had been younger, and he remembered being scared by the red teeth, always chewing.

Riverrun was the rightful seat of the Tullys, of his friend, Edmure, but the Freys had stolen that, like they stole power.

Of course, they did not rule the Riverlands, even if the Late Lord liked to wish that he did. Petyr Baelish had been given that honour.

Baelish had been a young boy when last he had seen him, playing in the Godswood of Riverrun with Catelyn and Lysa. They had climbed trees together, laughed as the wind flew through their hair.

Edmure had always hoped that one day his friends would marry his sisters. He had always preferred Catelyn, whilst Marq lusted for Lysa, but that would never be. They had been of too lowly a birth.

Baelish knew little of the Riverlands. He had not been born here, and spent but a few years sheltered away in the Tully castle as a child. He cared not for the river lords and their ways or their customs.

They would never accept him, and the Freys wuld never accept that he had been chosen over them.

"I will be having a feast this evening, to let the people celebrate my time as their lord. You will be in attendance, as will your father and brothers, seated apart, of course. I have had Ser Harys and Ser Donnel decide your outfit, and you will find it waiting for you in your chambers."

"The Mallisters of Seagard have betrayed their king once now, and they must surely pay for their treason. You will take a list of my demands to your father. See that he accepts them, boy, or I can promise that it will not be Marq Piper that takes your sister's maidenhead."

He stayed knelt through Walder's speech, and flushed at the last comment, anger boiling in his stomach. The comment brought forth laughs from Raymund, Donnel and Damon Vypren, the cruelest of the men that Black Walder had brought with him. He hated them all.

"My uncle will accompany you. To make sure that you and your father behave yourself, and that there are no plots afoot. You may rise now, boy."

Walder couldn't resist one more jab at him. As he rose from his kneeling position, the man called out to the room.

"Look at how well trained he is. I wonder what else he can do. Bark, boy."

He tensed up his muscles in anger, grimacing as he stared at the ground. He could feel his body visibly shaking. He barked. Men laughed, and Walder rose from his seat.

"That is a good boy. Maybe I will take you back to the Twins with me. Have you take the place of my uncle as the resident fool. We can make you dress like a dog and act like one too. That must be all that the heir to Seagard is good for."

The laughter around the hall grew to a more raucous level, with Harys and Lucias joining in now. Walton Frey stayed silent, staring into the distance straight ahead of him. Did he approve of his nephew's behaviour.

"We have had our fill of fun for today, boy. We must see your impression again at the feast, however. I am sure that it will make your father very proud."

He turned then, his face still flushed from embarrassment. The laughter carried on ringing around the hall as he left, the old Frey knight following behind him.

The man stayed as silent here as he did in the hall, refusing to comment on his nephew's conduct, or to apologise for the actions of the knights that had been brought with him.

To get to the lord's solar of Seagard you must climb the flights of stairs in the tallest of the five towers. It was said that the castle had possessed a single tower when King Lyman Mallister had first raised the castle. Lyman had been succeeded by his brother, and him by his, and him by his, and him by his. None of the four older brothers had any issue, but each built a tower larger than the one before him. Eventually the youngest built the tallest tower, and his son made it the house of the king's solar.

The official rooms of the Lord of Seagard were in the oldest tower, built by the first brother, but Black Walder had taken them as his own. Jason Mallister was, as a result, confined to his solar.

The room was well lit, at least, with many glass windows allowing the sun to beam in. It was one of the few rooms in the castle that had kept the Mallister fineries.

Upon the wall was the tapestry created by the Children, saved from the fires that had consumed most of the Mallister flags and perishable artifacts. Opposite it was the armour that his father wore into battle. It shimmered white in the glare f the sun, and had a winged helm.

His father sat at his desk, staring at the surface below him. He was joined in the room by two other men.

Madwyn was the old maester of Seagard. He was bald, with long and pointed fingers and a hunched back. He had special robes created for him that served to fit around his deformity.

The other was Ser Gavin Grell, the former steward of the castle before the arrival of Walder and Walton. He was middle aged, and had grown up with Jason. The Grells swore themselves directly to Seagard, but Gavin's older brother had served at Riverrun for many years. He was large in belly, with a bristly red beard and a round face.

"I did not expect to see you this morning, Patrek, nor you, Ser Walton. What is it that brings you to my prison cell?"

He stepped closer to his father's desk, and Walton slowly followed him into the room. His eyes darted around, taking in everything that he could, as if he had had never been this high up. That wasn't the case, he knew, Walton had visited his father many times during their imprisonment.

The old Frey stepped past him and handed over a single page of paper to the Lord of Seagard. Jason took it without any questions. He knew what it would be. Had Gavin already informed him what to expect?

His father's facial expression didn't change as he read, a bored look on his face. He put the paper down on the table.

"I will gladly send Hoster to serve as a squire and friend to the king. I cannot, however, bow to the demands made by the honourable Walder Frey, you must know this."

He rose from his chair and walked over to one of the windows. It looked out over the port town that the castle of Seagard protected. He had a quick memory of looking out of this window with his father when he had been young, before he had been sent away to squire at Raventree Hall.

The room stood silent for a few minutes as his father looked out, no-one making to move. Madwyn looked down at his feet, his hands clasped in front of him and his hooked nose nearly pointing straight down.

Eventually his father spoke.

"It saddens me that we have not talked in some time, Ser Walton. Not since before your brother died, I believe. I was sad to hear of that news. He was a good man."

That was a lie. His father had spoken with him many times about how he disliked Ser Ryman Frey, both during the war and on the few times that they had met since then. He had found the man to be a lewd bore, more concerned with his own reputation than the honour of his family. Why would his father lie to the Frey? Was he trying to comfort the man as he mourned?

"I fear that often the world makes those that are not at fault for the crimes of their family answer for said crimes. That is why it saddens me that Black Walder chose to send you to us, instead of Ser Raymund or Ser Harys. I would happily do what must be done."

He watched Walton pale and start to whimper. When the Frey turned to run he found Gavin Grell stood between himself and the door. There was no escape, and he was rooted to the spot.

His father, on the other hand, was not. He moved away from the window and over to the shaking Frey. There was the stench of piss about the terrified man.

"Face your death with some dignity, my friend. I am sorry that the god's have thrown you into my path. Truly I am."

His father grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, and Gavin Grell stepped aside, revealing the opening of the door. There was no smile on Jason Mallister's face as he carried the quivering Frey to the edge of the window that he had been gazing out of.

"May the gods forgive me for what I must now do."

None of them made a move to stop the action. Madwyn stepped forward and slipped a single page of paper into Walton's robes. The note that Black Walder would read when the body was discovered, confessing that he had jumped out of remorse for his brother's death. All faked of course.

It was all over quick.

One moment Walton was there, the next he was hanging in the air, trying to grab onto something, but finding nothing to save himself, the next he was gone.

He breathed then, seemingly for the first time in an hour. It felt like a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

"We must move quickly to take best advantage of the situation. Madwyn, get down there and make sure that Black Walder finds the note. Gavin, go and get my son and daughter. Ride with them to Martlet Hall. Tell your brother to look after them until I send a raven."

Then his father turned to him, and he saw how old he looked now. His face was more lined and there was more grey in his hair than any other colour.

"Patrek, you know you're role. You have an additional companion riding with you now. Find him in the lower courtyard and ride like the wind. You more than any of us have to succeed."

He nodded, leaving the room before either of the other two. He took the steps down the tower two at a time, a dangerous approach. Even from here he could hear the commotion in the upper courtyard.

He turned left out of the steps. Right would have taken him to where a crowd was no doubt gathering around the corpse of the Frey that his father had just murdered. Did that make them any better than the Freys or the Starks? Walton Frey had not been an enemy, yet he had been killed under guestright all the same. He hoped that the gods would forgive them for what they had done. It was the only way.

The halls of his home felt colder than usual. Maybe it was the guilt of what he had helped do on his back, or that he wasn't sure when the next time he would be back here was. He missed his home whenever he left.

The lower courtyard was near deserted, with hardly anyone here. No doubt most of the men and women had gathered in the upper courtyard by now. The blacksmith's son was sparring with a wooden dummy, and the Master of Horse was trying to break in a young pony. His son was here also, standing in the stable with three horses ready. _One of those would be for Gavin Grell, the others for the two younger Mallister children_ , he thought, _his brother and sister_.

Even now, the Mallisters were still loved within the city. The Warden of the Port still commanded the love and respect of his people. They were willing to risk this for him. They were willing to help his children flee.

Another stood in the stables, holding two horses in place. One of them was his own, a black stallion with a white birthmark on the right flank, whilst the other was a sandy coloured female, with a yellow mane, dirty and matted.

The man holding the horses looked ill, thin and pale. He had his face covered, but he knew who this was. He had been woken by the man only that morning. Was it wise to trust a Frey with such an important mission? Maybe Lord Tytos had asked for a representative from the Twins too.

Olyvar Frey was silent as he offered the horse forwards, a wordless transaction between acquaintances. They had a long hard ride ahead of them. Maybe, in that time, they would grow to be friends.


	13. Samwell II

The journey back from Horn Hill had taken them three more days. This time, however, they were not travelling alone, but with an armed guard that Garlan had sent.

He had chosen his best men, or so he told Sam, to make sure that they reached the city unharmed. Gilly had spent most of the first few days crying, having been forced to leave the babe behind. Young Aemon would be taken to Highgarden with Sam's mother and sisters, who were amongst the noble ladies that were to be fostered at the Tyrell seat, safe from Ironborn incursions.

These men were nicer than Sam had expected. They welcomed him around the fires that they had during the night, whilst Gilly slept.

He had sat silently and listened on the first night, as they told each other stories of war or love. He had enjoyed it.

On the second knight they had asked him about the Wall, and so he had told them. He told them of the time that Clydas had almost fed Maester Aemon boiling oil, thinking that it was wine. He told them of Alliser Thorne and his bruising exercises. He told them of noble Jeor Mormont, brave Jaremy Rykker, aged Denys Mallister. They had listened, fascinated.

On the last night he had told them of the Others.

He spoke of the fight at the Fist. He told them of how Chett was pulled down by the decayed corpse of a wildling girl, stabbed through the eye with a dagger and screamed in the cold. He told them of Small Paul and the dragonglass dagger.

He had waited for their laughter then, but instead they stared at him in awe. They did not mock him to his face like his brothers had, instead they applauded him for his bravery and sense of duty. They had loved him for it.

There had been one man, Morras, who had ridden with him during the days.

He had told Sam about his family. His old mother who still wept for his father, his wife and three kids, who awaited his return. He said that he stayed faithful where other men wouldn't. He was in love.

He wondered if that was what he experienced with Gilly.

He could never take her for his wife, that would mean that he broke his oath, but whether or not he wanted to was very much open. He had never had a girl like him like this before, and the feelings confused him.

Morras had asked him about love, and Gilly was all he could think of. Then he remembered Jon.

Garlan had received a raven from Castle Black the same day that they had left. It said that a wildling had killed the Lord Commander. Jon was dead.

He had thought it a joke at first, but then the cruel reality settled in. Jon was dead. Jon was dead. Jon was dead.

Who had killed him? Had it been Tormund? The Weeper? One of the wildlings he had let into the Watch?

Gilly had cried at the news, even if she had never known Jon the way that he had. She had cried for him, or that was what she said later, because she knew that he had lost a friend. Jon was dead.

So he had told Morras of his Lord Commander. He had started with Jon when they had first met, when he had had saved him from the clutches of Alliser Thorne, how it had been Jon that had introduced him to Grenn and Pyp, how Jon had listened to him go on and on about dusty old books that he had found.

Then he told him about Jon's change.

He described in detail the election, and then almost cried when he talked of being sent away. Morras had gasped when he was told of the baby swap. That was the whole story.

Jon was dead. The last order that he had given him was to stop being a craven. Could he do that for his friend? He had gone to Horn Hill, knowing that was where his father and brother would wait for him. Was that the act of a craven?

Had he learned from Braavos and Dareon? Had those actions made him stronger? Sure, he was terrified of going to Oldtown and serving as a spy for Garlan, but any man would be. That was a rational fear.

Then some kind of animal squeaked in the brush to the side of them and he squealed. Morras laughed and clapped his shoulder.

"I will miss you, Sam Tarly."

He had said that, and other men had cheered the statement. Had they come to like him? These men were not his father's, they were Garlan's, and they were almost as gallant as the knight that they served.

They had left him at the city gates, however, riding north to meet up with the rest of Garlan's army, waving him goodbye and wishing them luck. He hadn't realised that he would miss them too, until he looked up at the great walls of the city of Oldtown, hearing the hustle and bustle of the city before him.

Gilly was whisked away by two elderly crones, dressed in the gowns of serving maids. he barely had time to say goodbye. They cackled as they went, as if trying to carry on the appearance that they held as witches.

Gilly was to act as a spy in the High Tower itself, serving the family as a serving girl, and trying to find out their intentions. It would be a long while before he saw her again, and her mission was possibly more dangerous than his.

He remembered Garlan's last words to him.

"Find Leo Tyrell. He is my cousin. He will ingratiate yourself in at the Citadel, and introduce you to the people that you need to know."

And so that was what he did, although he dreaded the meeting.

He had met Leo only two times before. Once had been before he left with Gilly to go to Horn Hill. He had been with the Maester that had called himself Marwyn. The other had been at the same tourney that he had first met Garlan and Willas.

Leo had been a squire then, to a Fossoway knight, and had been one of those that tossed cruel words his way. He had hated Sam for everything that he stood for, so how was it that he had found himself here, training to be a Maester?

He had asked Garlan, but the man had nothing in the way of answers, instead saying that he wasn't sure, but that Leo's father was the Commander of the Oldtown City Watch, so that likely had something to do with it.

Would Leo give up all the pleasantries of knighthood so that he could be close to his father?

He searched everywhere for the boy. He went first to his rooms, and then to those of Marwyn, the Archmaester who served as his patron. He found the man gone, with none of his novices to be seen. They all must have moved on.

eventually he gave up, and decided to try and find a place to stay the night, since the door to his room was curiously blocked, and it was the other boy that had the key.

It was midday when he walked into the _Archmaester's Head_ , a tavern named for the head of an ancient Archmaester, who had supposedly been executed by a king of House Hightower in the days before the Gardeners took control of the Reach. He was surprised, therefore, to find the very man that he searched for, sat on a stool and drinking.

He was alone, with none of his friends, and none of the place's patrons had arrived to get their own drinking started yet.

"The Mage is gone! Gone to the dragons! Gone to the Seas of Grass and the horselords!"

He called out to the world, his voice slurred and his hands in the air. He could smell the drink on him from the door. That suggested that he had been here last night, and had just never returned to his quarters.

Leo Tyrell wore a green jerkin, decorated with golden fringing, with a soiled, grey cloak falling down his back. He looked a mess. He hadn't noticed that he now had company.

"Soon she will step onto the shores of Westeros, and the false pretenders shall be forced to bend the knee! The stone dragon awaits! I have seen him in the candles!"

He approached the drunkard that was meant to be helping him around the Citadel, unsure if he really wanted it, seeing the state that he was in.

"Slayer!"

His ears pricked at the name. Only his brothers in black knew the name that they mockingly called him.

Then he realised that the utterance had come from Leo's lips, without him even turning around to see that he had entered. Had he known when he was coming? How had he known that name?

"I was hoping that you would come sooner, but I knew that you would not. Your lady love has been taken already, Slayer? Good, then we may move."

The man turned to him then, calling out to seemingly no-one.

"Meryn! Put it on my tab!"

If Meryn had heard him then he made no effort to respond, as, besides for Leo's heavy breathing, the place was silent. The acolyte seemed to be satisfied that he had been heard, however, as he got to his feet and stumbled out of the door. He followed him reluctantly.

The tour of the city was more than he expected.

Quite a lot of it centred around Leo's favourite drinking holes and brothels, all of which made him blush, and Leo laugh at his embarrassment.

Eventually he showed him some of the other landmarks, so that he may be able to find his way around if he got lost.

He was awed by the ancient Starry Sept, and the magnificence of the High Tower. The chanting of the followers of R'hllor at the temple of the Red God scared him, however.

Then, after quite a lot of walking, and with himself flushed and panting, Leo abandoned him in the labyrinth of streets, called off by some of his louder friends.

He tried to find his own way, but he could not. He found his way back to the High Tower, but from there he was lost. He almost sat down and cried in the middle of the street.

That was when he felt a gentle tap on the back of his right shoulder. When he turned, there was no-one there. When he turned back to face forward he found a boy stood in front of him.

He was dark skinned with a widow's peak and comely features, with dark eyes that made him look like he was staring into your very soul.

"Sometimes you must look where you do not expect to find what it is that you seek, Sam Tarly. This, I think, you will learn soon enough. what brings you to wander the streets of Oldtown with no guide?"

Alleras the Spinx had a playful smile, the kind that danced across the face, as if to some music that only he could hear. There was some joke afoot, but what was it?

"I was with Leo Tyrell, but he left me alone, and I-I-I don't know where I should be going from here."

"Lazy Leo was too lazy to finish his duties, was he? Did you find him to be pleasant."

"I found him to be drunk."

That caused another laugh from the boy. It was a playful laugh, singsong even, not deep and throaty like most of the laughs at the Wall. It was pleasant on his ears.

"I fear that is how you will find him to be more times than not. He has little control when it comes to vices, whether it be woman or drink."

That was the kind of man that Garlan trusted to keep him and Gilly safe? A drunken whoremonger?

"Come, Sam Tarly. Let me find you some friends. I think I know just the people for you."

And that was how he had been taken under the wing of Alleras, not Leo. They had both served the same man, he remembered, and knew each other well, although didn't seem to care for each other that much.

Leo had his own friends, although he rarely met them. The Tyrell acolyte kept them to himself, claiming that their secrecy was important and that he would compromise himself by revealing their identity.

That was why he ended up spending most of his time with Alleras' friendship circle, studying and drinking.

There was Mollander, big and strong, with all the makings of a knight, were it not for his clubfoot. He had two links in his chain, although both had been taken years before. He rarely studied now.

Where Mollander went you would always find Roone, who was his constant companion. The boy was short and chunky, with a moon face and sickly features. He had yet to get his first link, but he was still young. He had time.

Then there was Armen, the one that they called the Acolyte. He was a tall and slender man, with a thin, pointed nose. He took great pride in the four links that he had achieved, and claimed to be well on his way to gaining a fifth, the black iron link.

It was that reason for which they were gathered in the _Quill and Tankard_ , with Alleras stood upon the table talking to the entire tavern.

"And then my mother pulled the last aroow from her quiver, placed it into the bow, and shot it straight through the loose scale of the monstrous sea dragon!"

Some called out cheers at this, whilst others laughed at the sheer ridiculousness of the story. Most gathered here were acolytes, and not many believed in sea dragons, or dragons of any kind, still living.

For them, the last dragons had died with their Targaryen masters.

Maester Aemon had thought differently, however. He had exalted at the news of Daenerys Stormborn, and had told him of dreams that he had, of dragons and stars bleeding in the skies above.

He was awoken from his stupour by cheers and claps, as Alleras was dramatically bowing upon the table.

When the bar had eventually settled down, Armen looked to his friend sceptically, a look of worry and scorn in his eyes.

"You really believe these bizarre stories of yours to be true? You think that under the ocean lurk monsters that are waiting to tear us to pieces."

This comment prompted Mollander to look up from his fourth strong cider.

"Why not? I mean, there are plenty of monsters above the waves who want to do exactly the same."

Roone moved to put his arm around his friend, and for once the burly novice didn't shrug it off. His father had been a knight, or so the Sphinx had said, and died upon the Blackwater fighting for the fiery stag.

Armen frowned at his comment, gaining an even more haughty look on his face as he did. It was Alleras that was the one that commented next, however.

"It is the monsters within men that are the most frightening and the hardest to kill. That was what my mother always told me when we travelled. She would say that there were monsters in all men, in some more peaceful than others. I asked her what my father's monster was. She had said that his was wild, yet elegant, a graceful as the wind, yet deadly too."

Alleras liked to talk about his mother and father in these ways, never giving names, but smiling as he did. He had many stories about how he had explored the world with the two of them, and of the many exotic places that he had visited. Some even said that he had visited the Shadow and returned, and that was why Marwyn the Mage had expressed such an interest in the young acolyte.

"Maybe it was the monster inside the Mage that saw him take Pate from us."

This comment brought a reaction from some of those at the table. Robert Frey, one of Leo's friends, sighed in exasperation, whilst Armen visibly tried to restrain his sharp tongue.

Pate was the one that made Sam feel like he would never be accepted here.

The boy had disappeared shortly after his own arrival, vanishing at the same time as the Mage. Various rumours had circulated about him. To some it was simple. The pig boy had finally realised that he wasn't cut out for the life of a Maester and had left. Others had darker theories. Archmaester Vaellyn claimed that Marwyn had taken Pate for a blood sacrifice, whilst Norren had circulated rumours that Marwyn had taken the boy to bugger him in distant lands.

And at the centre of these rumours was Mollander, Pate's best friend, mourning the second loss. He hardly stopped talking about the boy. this disheartened his other friends, who did not like seeing the novice drown himself in cider.

He disliked it too.

The ghost of Pate still stayed over this particular group. Whilst Mollander still searched for his friend he would never be accepted, the same as it had been anywhere else. He was alone without Jon.

Jon was dead. He had to move on.

He knew Mollander's guilt and remorse. Neither of them had been there to protect their friends when they needed them most. Maybe if Mollander had been with Pate then he would still be here. Could the same be said about him and Jon? What good would he have done against a rogue wildling? He was nothing without Jon protecting him.

He was pulled out of his thought process by the sound of wooden legs scraping the stone floor.

He was surprised to see that they had been joined by Leo. He had taken his seat next to Robert, a tankard of cider already in his hand. It had been days since he had arrived back in Oldtown, but he had only seen Leo fleetingly.

Leo was handsome and pale, with eyes that sparkled in the light. His hair was ash blonde, and his voice soft, but his tongue darting. He had been taught from an early age by the Queen of Thorns herself, or so it was said.

Robert was everything that his friend was not. He was large in waist and had a fat face, with many chins covering the usually weaselly features of the Freys. His hair was brown and messy, cut so short that it seemed not to cover his large head. He had piggy eyes, and Sam was thankful that his size made him seem slimmer.

He had lost weight over the course of the boat journey, to the point that his black clothes barely fitted him. Alleras had gifted him with some new clothes upon his arrival, claiming that the Mage had instructed him to do so, and that he was to help him with his studies.

"Do not cry, Hopfrog. I am sure our sweet little pig boy is well on the way back to Lannisport. That is, if he isn't currently on the harder end of the Mage's cock."

That caused a snort of laughter from the Frey boy, and a growl from Mollander. A smile danced on Leo's lips as he witnessed the reaction that his jibe had caused.

"Let use see you make your clever japes when you have steel in your hands, Tyrell."

"Oh, Hopfrog. I would gladly fight you, but I fear that the Citadel has a policy against the murder of my fellows. Maybe if you were to withdraw your name..."

Roone had to hold Mollander back at that, as Leo laughed vocally at the larger boy being pulled back by the younger child.

"Let us calm, friends. We have lost ourselves a friend in Pate, but gained one in Sam. Let us raise our tankards to him."

"Yes, let us raise our tankards to the Craven in Black."

Leo's mocking smile had turned on him, bu he raised his tankard none the less, inclining his head slightly. Mollander and Roone didn't follow the toast, as Roone was distracted by calming his companion down. Armen and Robert, however, raised their own ciders with smiles on their face.

"We should let him raise some skirt whilst he is here, too. I haven't seen you touch a woman all week, Craven."

Leo whistled out so that the woman behind the bar gave him her attention.

"Emma, send Bella and Rosey over for my friend father will pay you the coin later."

The woman didn't look too happy about it, but she nodded. She couldn't reject a Tyrell, let alone one whose father was Commander of the Oldtown City Watch.

Bella was one of the younger serving girls at the tavern, and was as new to the city as he was himself, having traveled south from the Riverlands not long after the war had begun. Her home had been destroyed by lions, wolves and then lions again, or so she said.

Her hair was curled and black, whilst her eyes were as blue as the cold ice that the Wall was made out of. They were prettier, somehow, as if they twinkled in the dim light of the tavern. She was nothing compared to her companion, however.

Rosey was amongst the prettiest girls that he had ever set eyes upon. She had dimples and hair that curled behind her ears. She had a pretty laugh too, more of a giggle than anything. She doted on Alleras, as did most of the serving girls did.

They looked after the comely boy, making sure that he was never short of drink and touches on his shoulders.

The two girls stood before him now. Rosey was the shorter of the two, younger than Bella, with budding breasts compared to Bella's full bosom. The older of the girls held her hands in front of her, a wicked smile on her face as she looked him up and down. He turned his eyes on the younger.

She tried to look confident and happy, but underneath there was a permeable fear. She worried about losing her maidenhead, as he had been when Gilly had taken his.

He wasn't sure why his eyes then turned on Mollander. Maybe it was the piercing glare that the older boy was firing in his direction. Something about this arrangement was upsetting him. He had never expressed any interest in either girl.

Then it hit him.

Rosey was the girl that Pate had fawned over. If he were to sleep with her then he would be fulfilling the association that he held with Pate in the eyes of Mollander and Roone. That was the last the thing that he wanted.

He wasn't sure whether it was this or the thought of Gilly that caused him to flee the tavern. He heard Armen call out from behind him, but he ignored the acolyte.

Beyond that he wasn't sure what was happening. He had soon lost himself in the maze of streets, and found himself down on the bank of the Honeywine, staring at a body that had floated up on the land.

It was a small corpse, bloated and blotchy from it's exposure to the water. The skin below the eyes was red and raw.

"It is him. I feared that this would be the case."

He turned to see that Alleras had followed him. Where he was panting and sweaty his friend was fine, with a dry brow and no heaving chest.

"You have now met, Pate, my friend. No-one can know this. Not Armen, Roone or Mollander. Especially not Leo. This has to be our secret, Sam. Do we agree on this?"

He had nodded then, and his friend bowed his head, walking silently over to the body of his friend. He cupped the boy's face for a few seconds, tracing his fingers along the jawline that had bloated under the fast flowing waters.

There were no tears in his eyes as he rose, using his foot to push the body back into the water. Pate was swept away, and Alleras stayed to watch, silence on his usually eloquent tongue.

This was their secret. He would remain silent, as he had been asked. As silent as Pate would remain.

Lost under the waters forever, away from his friends and his Rosey.

Alone and cold.

He knew how Alleras would feel at this moment. He had lost his friend too.

Jon was dead.


	14. The Converted Traitor

The Karstark stood there, silently watching the king's sellswords and knights scurry before the man, begging his attention about matters that concerned them, but not many others.

The battle was coming soon, yet they still concerned themselves with such little, trivial manners. They did not understand winter, and they did not understand how to fight a Northman.

They lacked the preparation for a battle in the cold, with Boltons that knew how to fight. He despised the traitor and his bastard, but they would be prepared, unlike these men.

Right now, the tent was nearly empty. He stood by the door, watching the scene unfold before him.

Robin Potter was on Kingsguard duty, and for once he stayed silent. His Lord Commander was absent, away making sure that the camp's defences were up to scratch. Farring had reported that morning that the Freys and Manderlys had camped beyond the wood to the east, with Theo Wull having scouted to the north, seeing the Bastard of Bolton moving northwards.

Stannis was hoping that he could launch an ambush on his enemy. Draw them into the centre of the forest and then attack from the centre, as well as both flanks. Hosteen Frey was the commander, a man that would charge forward to take a quick victory before thinking. His brother may be the issue.

Farring had not seen Aenys Frey during any of his scouting missions, and that had caused most of the king's knights to suspect that he had gone north with the Bastard.

At the moment, it was Maynard Fell, Rickard Liddle and Godry Farring gathered before the king. The two southrons knelt, whilst the young Northman stayed standing.

"You will take the right flank, Fell. Liddle, you will be on the right, commanding the Glover, Liddle and Norrey men. Farring, you command the vanguard."

Stannis wore his sword upon his belt, but he would not be fighting today, not if the battle went as he hoped. The king was hoping that his enemies wouldn't even set sight on their camp.

The two southrons nodded with no words, whilst Rickard Liddle made no response. He was not the senior Northern fighter. Why would Stannis give command to him and not the Wull or the Umber?

"The Karstark men will stay here with us, under Arthor's command. They will act as my last line of defence."

He nodded his head at this, having been addressed by the king that he had chosen to fight for.

He would have rather fought than act as a defender. He was the blood of the North. He knew winter, he had lived through two. He should be a commander.

He was his father's second son of four, not all trueborn. He shared his father's name. Arthor Karstark.

He was the grandson of Arnolf Karstark, a traitor that had attempted to betray the true king of the Seven Kingdoms. His father had supported his grandfather, and was, as such, a traitor also.

The Karstarks had once been a proud name to bare in the North. They had the blood of king's in their veins, the old Kings of Winter, not the new that sat far away on their Iron Throne. Many Karstarks had served as Lord Commanders of the Night's Watch.

It was a shame that none of his direct kin could claim such loyalty and honour.

His cousin, Rickard, had been his lord for many years. Leading them through two wars. He had been a younger man when they had fought on Pyke, but he had fought for his cousin and his liege.

Rickard had been a good man, from what he remembered. His name was a banned one now, one associated not with loyalty and honour, but with treachery and murder. He had been beheaded by the Young Wolf. The boy had paid for that, though whether a just fate he was unsure.

Rickard had three sons.

There had been the twins, Torrhen and Eddard, named for Starks. They had been fearless fighters, but fools none the less. They had fought for the wrong man. They had given their lives for a lost cause and a pup king.

It had been their deaths in the shadows of the Whispering Wood that had driven Rickard ino his madness, into his delusions. He had lost what he had held dear, and he would never have them back.

Harrion was the other, a better man than his brothers. They had been a born a similar age, him and Harry, and had grown up training together. He had been a fierce opponent, one of the finest that he had ever faced, and one of the few who had ever bested him in the Karhold training ground.

He was a prisoner of the lions now, held in some damp cell somewhere so that he may be used later on, when the North was secured.

Then there had been fair, young Alys, the jewel of her father's eye. She had dreamed of learning to fight, but Rickard had never allowed it. He was the lord of the castle.

They had been his cousins, all of them, and most were now dead; killed in the Young Wolf's wars.

He had not gone off to fight, nor had his brothers, nor his father and uncle.

His grandfather was a sly man, small and wrinkled, with gaunt features. He had never been a warrior, not like Rickard or Harry. He was nothing.

Stannis had taken him prisoner when they arrived, told of the treachery that his grandfather had planned by the Turncloak. He had been taken with his brothers and father too, but had renounced his gods and family in favour of R'hllor.

His father had one sibling, an older brother.

Cregan had been everything that his father had not. Where Arnolf had always been weak of bone, wit and muscle, Cregan was large and strong, with a hulking frame. There was more of their cousins in him than his father.

He was bawdy too, liking drinking and whores. He had no children, or none that he acknowledged, yet some said that half the whores' boys in Karhold had been born from his loins. He had no honour.

He had lusted for young Alys, that was well known in the castle. He had followed her and sang for her, offering her children and to fight for her. She had turned him away always.

His father and Cregan's brother was the opposite of his brother.

He was larger in stomach than in muscle, with no hair, where Cregan had thick swathes of matted hair and beard. He had preferred the game of thrones to the game of war. He had been kept by his father's side, an ever present shadow. The betrayal had been his plan, of course.

He was the only one of the family to be living and free. His father had left him in Karhold to hold the castle in his absence.

His sons had all been taken prisoner by the fire king, except for himself, of course.

The oldest was Dorren Karstark, a giant of a man, standing taller than any of their cousins. He swung a mighty longsword, and had a beard that fell almost to his feet. He was a pious man, who worshiped daily in front of the weirwoods.

His younger brother was Karlon Snow, the bastard born of a wandering singer's daughter. He had inherited the glib tongue and skillful fingers, charming many of the females of Karhold into sleeping with him. Many whispers said that he had taken Alys' maidenhead, and had slept with his father's second wife.

The youngest was barely a man grown. Theon Karstark their father had named him, called for the old King in the North who had fought wars to protect his lands. He was smaller than his two oldest brothers, thinner in waist and arm, with less musical prowess than his bastard brother.

They were prisoners now.

The Turncloak had been burned not long after the departure of his sister. It had been Farring and Wull that had built the pyre, and Liddle and Umber that had tied him down. He had screamed Northern curses as the flesh was burned from his body.

It had been to secure themselves good faith in the battle that was to come. They needed the favour of the Lord of Light, and it had been the Turncloak that had been chosen as an offering. He had served his purpose.

The three commanders that had been called left then, heading off to gather the men that they would be commanding.

That left him alone with the king and Potter.

"Arthor, come forward."

Stannis had remained stood where he had been before, as if he was waiting for something.

He came before his king, kneeling as the southrons did. Stannis deserved respect, even if he didn't understand the North, it's ways, or it's peoples. This was the man that achieved the impossible during the War of Rebellion, and had beaten back the Wildlings at the Wall.

"You will today prove your loyalty to me. As such, I name you a knight of the realm. Do you swear to stand by my side until your death? Do you swear to obey all commands that I give you? Do you swear that you will serve me with honour and dignity to your last day?"

"I do."

"Then I name you Ser Arthor Karstark, knight of R'hllor and a man of my Kingsguard. You may rise, Karstark. You know what must be done now."

"I do."

It was Robin Potter that gave him the white cloak of the Kingsguard. He was the third man to be named to the order that protected the true king of the Seven Kingdoms.

He rose from his kneeling, and the smaller knight fastened the cloak around his neck.

The king and Potter were dressed in plated armour, but he preferred the leather armour that was preferred by his people. It gave him more maneuverability.

The tent door opened then, and Richard Horpe stepped into the room.

"They are ready, my grace. Come, brother. What has to be done must be done now."

He turned to the tent's exit, a grim look coming onto his face. Richard Horpe came with him to the three pyres that had been built. Stannis and Robin were to watch from the tent. The Karstark men had gathered around the three pyres that Richard Horpe had finished the construction of.

Strapped to the one on the left was the hulking form of his older brother. The man glared at him, the fire of hatred burning in his eyes. Next to him was Theon, tears frozen on his face. He wasn't silent like the others, calling out for mercy and to be spared. That would change nothing.

They had each been stripped to the waist, leaving their skin bare to the freezing cold winds that passed through the village. A last humiliation on the behalf of Stannis' men.

"Brother! Brother, tell them! Tell them, please! I will do anything! Please!"

He couldn't meet Theon's eyes as he pleaded. He remembered when he had been a younger boy, and they had played together in the courtyard of the castle. He could not cry. Not now. Not now. Not now.

It was his new brother that passed him the torch. He held it down to the wood at the feet of his older brother's pyre, swiftly moving on to Theon.

"No! Brother! No! No! NO!"

The calls wrenched at his heart, but he knew what had to be done.

Karlon did not call out to him. He had lost his tongue in his time of death. There was a fierce defiance on his face, something that he had never seen in his brother's eyes before.

He lowered the torch to his pyre too, and then dropped it into the snow, walking away, not staying to watch as Richard Horpe did. The Slayer recited the words of the Red God, asking for his favour and offering up the sacrifices.

The screams hadn't started by the time that he out out of hearing.

He found himself away from the camp, walking alongside the frozen lake that Stannis was using as a natural defence. He knelt beside a snow bank, his head in his hands.

Their voices came to him first.

It was just Eddard and Torrhen at first, whispering in his ears as he wept. Then his other cousin joined them, then Rickard, then his grandfather and, lastly, his brothers. They called him a traitor, a kinslayer, a monster, warped by fire.

When he looked up he could see them.

They shimmered pale and distant over the lake. Torrhen and Eddard stoos beside each other, their clothes soaked in blood. Harrion was next, dressed in soaked wolfskin. His father was next to him, his beard matted with blood. He stood at the centre.

They all came towards him, calling out his name, calling out his crimes. Soon they were close enough to touch. He reached out for them, but felt nothing. They surrounded him, and then darkness.

He awoke to find that the sun had set, and that his clothes had become wet from the snow. He shivered as he tried to find his way back to the camp, both from the cold and what he had just seen.

The camp was full of raucous noise when he did return, with men dancing around large fires and drinking to their heart's content. There was a sharp faced bard playing his harp with clever fingers. He tried to not let this remind him of Karlon.

Robin Potter was stood outside the king's tent, he put his hand out to stop him as he tried to pass.

"You vanished, brother. I hope that you were keeping yourself loyal to your king and to your oaths."

"I was."

"Good. Then the king will see you."

The tent was fuller than it usually was. A large fire was built in the middle, with smoke billowing above it and out of the hole above them. Northerners and Southrons gathered around and drank together.

"To the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms!"

It was Farring that initiated the call, but all of those gathered started to beat their shields and cheer out in response. It was clear that the battle had been fought and won.

He managed to find himself a small space in the corner of the tent, as those that had fought drank and cheered.

"You must be the Karstark that my master told me of."

The man that was stood by his side was still dressed for battle. He was also very clearly drunk. There was the stench of ale on him. One of his eyes was covered by a patch, and, upon closer inspection, he had one leg built of dark wood.

"I am Ser Bartimush, Knight of the Wolfsh Den. General to the good lord Wyman Manderly."

Had he said Manderly? The lord of White Harbor had declared for Roose Bolton. They were the enemy. Was this man a spy? If he was then he was a poor one.

"I wash sent to find you. Come, my mashter wishes to shpeak with you."

The old knight hobbled off then. He wasn't given long to decide what he should do next, but follow him he did. Wyman Manderly was a fat craven, and nothing to be feared.

The old man was faster than he should be for a cripple. He was clearly used to being maimed, suggesting that it was not a new wound.

He led him out of the camp, into the woods and then north around the side of the frozen lake. They walked for an hour in silence, before his companion tried to strike up conversation.

"I fought with a Lord Karshtark on the Trident, my boy. Did you know that? No, you didn't. All you lorlingsh shee when they look at me ish an old man. I wash a hero that day. Long forgotten now, though."

He stumbled on for a few more steps, before stopping.

"I need to pissh."

It was as simple as that. The man pulled his cock from his breeches and laid his stream into the cold snow.

"I knew Lord Shtark too. He did not know my name, of courshe, but I met him. Him and his crannogman. The Reed boy. Not a lord then. I shaw him reshently too. He wash older. We shared a drink."

He cared little for the old man's ramblings, but they could not walk as he relieved himself. It was minutes before they could get on their way again.

It was not long after that when they arrived at the small camp. This one was quieter than the one on the other side of the lake. Flags were stationed at the edge of the camp bearing the mereman of Manderly and the direwolf of Stark. The flayed man of Bolton lay crumpled below them, wet and muddy in the snow.

There was a large man stood between the two flags. He had long, brown hair, a matted beard, and brown eyes. He wore a red, leather jerkin and his hands were covered by two mail fists.

"You took your time, Bartimus. I hope you did not hold our joint friend up with your drinking and other frivolities."

"You can be shure Lord Glover. I had only a few alesh."

"So I can tell. Get yourself washed off and meet us again in the main tent. We would like for you to be present when we speak with our friend. Come, Karstark, you have much to tell me before our meeting."

This wasn't Wyman Manderly. He was too thin, too young. This must be Galbart Glover, but he was dead, or so Walder Frey had claimed. He walked with him anyway, wondering what news a ghost could possibly want from him.

"You must surely be wondering to what purpose it is that you have been brought here, Karstark. All will be explained shortly, I assure you. It is my job to find out information."

"I do not seek to betray my king, Glover."

"That is not what we ask of you, my friend. We have no quarrels with Lord Stannis-"

" _King_ Stannis."

"Of course. You forgive me. I bent the knee to one king and it has caused me many problems. Not that I would not do so again."

This man was loyal only to the Starks of Winterfell, that much was clear. What was he doing with Manderly then? Had White Harbor switched it's banners? If that was the case, then why were they here and not with Stannis' men back at camp?

"What would you have of me?"

"What does Stannis intend to do with the North?"

"I do not know."

"Does he intend for you to take Winterfell?"

"No."

"Then who?"

"I do not know."

Glover brought his mailed fist up to his own beard, stroking through it as he stared off into the distant knight. There was fear in his eyes, but defiance too. It was as if he was scared of something, but refused to be, all at the same time.

"A Stark must always be in Winterfell, Karstark. You have to remember..."

He was interrupted by a boy then, thin and gangly. There were no words exchanged between the two of them, but Glover seemed to understand what was being conveyed.

"We have been summoned. Come, Karstark, my companions are now ready to see you."

The Glover led them through the camp. It was nearly empty, as if the Manderly army was elsewhere. Why would he leave himself exposed like this?

The main camp was a fine won, made up of blue silks of different colours. It was a southron tent.

There was a small group of men and women gathered within the tent. Bartimus was the first that he saw, still dressed in his battle armour. He looked sobered up, and now wore a fine black cloak over his back.

His eyes then moved onto the boy, who had followed the two of them inside. His face was gaunt, and his eyes held sadness.

Then he looked straight down and saw the fat lord sat upon the chair at the head of the tent. Glover had carried on walking and taken his place by Lord Manderly's side.

Wyman Manderly was not a man that was pleasant to look upon. He was fat, with layers of it cascading down his body. He had four or five chins, covered in a grey stubble that made up his beard. Glover stood on his right, a man stood on the left, this one dressed in armour and fineries. This was not a northerner.

"Ser Karstark, I am delighted that you managed to find your way all the way here. You have already met Galbart, Bartimus and Larence, I think. Let me introduce my other friends. I hope that you will join us and help us achieve our noble goals."

He nodded at the man, stepping further into the tent. The door closed behind him, and the boy called Larence stepped past him, to stand by a different man.

"Heward Umber, brother to our good friend, the Greatjon. He represents Last Hearth on our little council."

Manderly gestured towards the large man that Larence nearly cowered behind. This man was definitely an Umber. He was bearish in appearance, standing taller than any other man in the room, with a longer and thicker beard.

"Lady Maege Mormont, accompanied by her daughters, Lyra and Jorelle. They stand for Bear Island."

Manderly moved his hand this time towards an older woman, short and stout, dressed in patched mail. At her back stood two girls, both young. One had inherited her mother's warrior features, the other was taller and fairer. They were Mormonts, however, and so both would be deadly.

"And lastly, our esteemed friend from the south, Ser Brynden Blackwood."

This was the man stood to the left of the White Harbor lord. A southron then, but the Blackwoods were followers of the Old Gods. How had he found his way this far north?

"He was amongst the Southron contingent sent by our beloved king. We have a few Blackwood and Mallister men marching with us, but alas, no Mallister came north, so they chose Brynden to represent them too."

That was everyone in the tent introduced. Now he had to find out what had gathered this group together, and why they wanted him.

"What do you bring me here for, Manderly? I should be guarding my king."

"You are of the North, my friend, as we all are. Even Ser Brynden has the blood of the First Men in his veins. Your king is not, and nor are his southrons. He would give Winterfell to one of his Southron knights, would he not?"

"King Stannis values all his vassals equally."

"Does he, boy?"

Umber had stepped forward at this. His voice was deep and gruff.

"Then tell me this. Why has he sent my uncle away? Where has he sent the Wull?"

Stannis had let Mors Umber leave? He had not known that. What purpose could that possibly serve? Was that why the Liddle boy had led the Mountain Clans in the fight?

"My king does not tell me the reasoning behind every action that he makes."

"I would not expect him too, friend."

There was a smile on Manderly's face, but there was something unnerving about his eyes.

"I would sooner follow Stannis Baratheon over the traitors currently sat in the chair that belonged to Eddard Stark. They are not our lords."

"When I bent the knee to Ned's son I knew he was a king. He had the Stark blood. Roose Bolton holds no claim on the North. Nor do any of the red king's southron knights. I will not bend my knee and declare one of them as my lord. Bear Island knows only a Stark as Lord of Winterfell."

"I say the same for my brother. Last Hearth follows the direwolf. I care little for stags, but if they give me a way to destroy the traitor and his bastard..."

Larence, Maege and Heward all expressed their feelings individually, but Manderly stayed quiet.

"This is why we need you, Karstark. We have already made moves to support your king, but we need assurances of our own. Winterfell cannot be held by a Southron. It must be given to a Stark."

"There are no Starks."

"Not at the moment."

"Did you bring me here to speak riddles, Manderly?"

He walked to the entrance to the tent.

"I will make your case before my king. Unless you magically produce a Stark, however, then I can do nothing."

"I think I have one already, my friend. I ask you just one thing. Remember this. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. Always."

And it was those words that rang in his head when he left. They followed him all the way back to thee camp, as if Manderly was right there whispering them himself.


	15. Jon Connington

He stood upon the walls of Storm's End, looking out over the battlefield. At last he felt that he had defeated Robert Baratheon. The Usurper was dead, and he had taken his castle. Why then did he feel so empty?

He had succeeded, but had his victory come too late? He had still failed Rhaegar. He had succeeded his silver prince's son, maybe, but that would never be the same. Rhaegar would still have died in the dirt and the mud because of him. He had failed the man that he had loved, and he would never succeed in overthrowing that most heinous of failures.

The bodies of the fallen were still being carried in by the footsoldiers of the Golden Company.

The battlefield before him reminded him more of his silver prince, and Rhaegar had never called for war. He had been a peaceful prince, with a beautiful soul and a golden heart. He had only ever wanted what was best for the kingdom.

The Starks had encouraged him. Rickard Stark had whispered sweet words in his ear. That he should be king, not Aerys. That his father was going mad and that he was no longer fit to rule. It was Rhaegar's fault for listening to such words, of course.

He had trusted them, and he had been betrayed. The Usurper's dogs had turned on their prince as soon as they could. They had turned their tail and fought a war of treachery.

And he could have ended it. He could have won the war in fire and blood. He had failed.

The bells still rung to him now, as they had then, as he had looked through each and every house for the usurper. He remembered Myles Mooton and Richard Lonmouth before the battle, talking of victory and glory. One of them had died then, the other had gone missing since.

The Lonmouths had been one of the first houses to bend their knee to Aegon. Ser Daeron Lonmouth had been sent to represent them, a young knight, unmarried. Aegon had been wise to name him to the Kingsguard. He was learning to befriend important houses.

Those thoughts brought him round to Duckfield.

 _He had been brave_ , he thought, _not that it had saved him in the end_.

Rolly had been one of the casualties of the battle they had fought under the walls of Storm's End. He had taken three arrows to the chest protecting his king. He had died like a knight of the Kingsguard should.

Young Torman Peake had not survived either, being cut down when the Baratheon men made their last charge. He had been killed by the Baratheon commander, who had been in turn cut down by Pykewood Peake, Torman's older brother. It had been some Estermont or other.

The other two commanders of the defense had been taken prisoner and were now in residence in the castle's dungeons at the king's pleasure.

The battle had been exceptionally bloody, not helped by the arrival of the other Baratheon's troops. The boy king's army had arrived towards the end of the battle, and had struggled to make any impact. They had been a few thousand men, whilst the Golden Company commanded twice their number. The enemy commander had fallen easily.

"I am sorry that I must halt your thoughts, old friend!"

He felt the strong, muscled arm of Franklyn Flowers clap him on the back, almost knocking him forward.

"The young king has called you to the throne room. We have new arrivals, and he intends to publically question the prisoners and allow them to bend the knee, if they so wish."

He had called for him? He had not seen Aegon since the battle. The boy had locked himself in the lord's chamber and not let himself out, allowing only for his Kingsguard to enter the room. That, at the moment, was only Ser Daeron. Others would have to be named to the post.

Pykewood Peake would create a strong relationship between Aegon and the Peakes of Starpike, but the man was a whoring wretch, and little better off than his king after watching his brother die.

Caspor Hill and Brendel Byrne had both distinguished themselves during the assault on Storm's End, but neither brought larger families to their side.

For now Ser Daeron would have to serve as Lord Commander of nothing.

"Let us go then, friend. We must see what my boy has to tell us. Let us hope he brings good news. What do they say of him in the camps."

"They sing songs of their glorious young king, one who can win battles, as opposed to sitting behind his mother's skirts like the boy in the capital. A victory over the Usurper's brother and the cowardly lion! truly a great week, my friend."

It was good that the men had not caught wind of Aegon's weakness. He had taken the loss of his friend too hard, and that could show a sign of weakness, both to his allies and his enemies.

"Who are the new arrivals that you speak of?"

"Two men who came off a boat this morning. That is as much as I know, unfortunately. They are being escorted up to the castle by the green Lonmouth boy."

He knew that some of the men of the Golden Company thought little of Ser Daeron. He was a comely man, with long, blonde hair, and a slender figure. He wasn't as broad as Richard had been, and relied more on speed than strength. He reminded him more of Myles.

The halls of Storm's End were dark, as if they were upset that the castle was no longer held by a member of the family that had sat here for so long. He found it foreboding and ominous. He would not be sad to leave this castle.

The great hall of Storm's End was full when he slipped in through a side door with Ser Franklyn at his back.

The numbers of people here didn't mean the hall was full of noise. Instead there was a deathly silence. It was almost as if he had walked into a hall full of statues. He could feel the eyes of those gathered gradually turn on him. They parted before him, as silently as they gazed.

It was not long before he was stood in front of the high seat of Storm's End. It was a mighty seat, carved of ancient stone. The boy currently sat in it looked small.

Ser Daeron stood beneath the seat, his hand on the hilt of his sword, and his eyes staring out into the horizon.

Two men were knelt before the throne, both dressed in soiled clothes, and with their heads bowed.

Jon Lothston stood to the side of the throne. It was him that called out.

"Lord Jon Connington, Hand of the King to Aegon Targaryen, the sixth of his name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Protector of the Realm, and the taker of Storm's End. Accompanying him, Ser Franklyn Flowers, commander of the Hand's guard."

He passed the two men on the floor, rising the stairs that led up to the cold chair.

It was Lothston that called out again.

"Presented to the king are the two imprisoned traitors. Ser Gilbert Farring, the Knight of Farring Cross, and Lord Elwood Meadows, Head of House Meadows and the Lord of Grassy Vale. Both are tried with the crime of treason and defying the true king."

Gilbert Farring was the larger of the two, strong and muscled, with curled, black hair and a stern face with a hooked nose. Elwood was smaller and thinner, with little in the way of muscle. He had a shock of brown hair, and a thin, snivelly face.

"You know why you have been brought forward?"

Aegon's voice was colder than it had been before. His friend's death had hit him harder than it should have. He should never have let the two of them grow to be so close.

"For fighting for the true king."

It was Gilbert Farring that spoke now. There was an audible intake of breath as he did.

"Stannis Baratheon is the rightful king of Westeros. You are nothing but a false dragon. No more a king than the bastard in King's Landing."

"Silence!"

Aegon's nose flared as he called out, his teeth gritting as they always had when he angered.

"I am the rightful king! I am my father's son! I am the blood of the dragon!"

"You are nothing."

"No! Your false king is nothing!"

The eyes of the court had found their way on to the boy. Some looked at him with worry. He could see Harry Strickland stood with his Lysene spymaster.

"Ser Lymond, step forward."

One of the Golden Company moved forwards at this. He was younger than most of his companions. He was also thin of face and pale, with thin cheekbones. In the camps they had called him Death, for he had served as Harry Strickland's executioner for many years. Since then, he had been named as Aegon's King's Justice.

"Bring me Ser Gilbert's head!"

Lymond's eyes flicked to him first, and then to Strickland. He remained silent, as did the Captain-General. The knight moved forward then.

"Wait! Do you have anything to say that may spare your life, Ser? Renounce your king and I will show you my mercy."

There was another intake of breath as they watched on, waiting for what the Farring knight was going to say next.

Their anticipation was falsely placed, however, as all that he said was whispers of the Red God. He carried on staring at the cold stone below him, and Aegon nodded to Lymond, who inhaled deeply, before separating the man's head from his body in one swift blow.

Elwood let out a wail as his companion died. There were tears in this man's eyes.

"Ser Duncan, Ser Denys, take Ser Gilbert and see that his body is sent on its way back to Farring Cross. We would do well to show ourselves as kind."

The deep fire in the boy's eyes had vanished now. He was more serene, and his grimace had changed into a small frown.

Two more of the Golden Company knights stepped forward. They were both large, with greying hair and bristly stubble around their chins. The brothers Strong, who claimed descent from an old Riverlands house.

"Lord Elwood, you have seen now that I am not false when I call you a traitor. Do you now choose to plead differently?"

The man snivelled, his voice was weak and trembling.

"I do, your grace. I would ask you to spare me, please. Show me mercy and I shall serve you loyally, I swear."

Jon Lothston spoke up then.

"Why should we trust you? This would be the second time that you have turned your back on a king. How do we know that you will not do the same with the true king when the time comes."

"I swear on my faith and my family, Ser. I am yours!"

Harry Strickland stepped forward then, a thin smile on his face.

"If I may suggest, your grace. The man would swear on his family? Then send him and some men to deliver them to us. Grassy Vale is not far from the border of the Stormlands. Holding it would give us a foothold in the Reach."

"Very well. I, King Aegon Targaryen, spare the life of Lord Elwood Meadows, and hand him over to the custody of my friend, Harry Strickland."

He could do nothing but scowl at that. Strickland was taking too much power, too many prisoners and too much influence. He should never have been allowed to grow this much.

Strickland nodded, and the spymaster came forward, the squire at his side. They dragged Elwood from the room, the man still weeping and calling out his thanks. He was a truly weak man.

"Let our new guests step forward!"

Jon Lothston called out, and the great hall filled with muttering. This was what they had been waiting for.

Two men walked out of the shadows, side by side. One of them was larger and more muscled, the other was shorter and slender, with a shaved head. His eyes were golden.

"The court presents Ser Rolland Storm and Ser Rolas, survivors of the Siege of Dragonstone."

It was the larger of the two men that stepped forward to speak.

"I speak to the one who calls himself Aegon Targaryen? I am the bastard Rolland Storm, first of my name. Stannis Baratheon was my king, but he has gone north. What can you give me if I offer you my blade."

"A good king, my friend. The true king. I am the blood of dragons..."

"Dragons are gone. If all you can give me is words and promises then I will have to decline."

"What do you seek?"

"My father's lands restored to me, and me legitimised as a Caron. I want the Foote usurper given to me, to do with as I will. I want the restoration of the Faith of the Seven in the Stormlands and on Dragonstone. Give me this and you have my sword."

He caught Aegon's eyes then, and nodded to him, indicating that he should give Rolland what he wanted. By restoring the Faith of the Seven, Aegon could glorify himself in the eyes of the smallfolk. He would be the champion of the faith.

"Very well, Ser. I hereby name you not as a Storm, but as Ser Rolland Caron, and name you to my newest order, the Order of the Seven and the Dragon, the knights that will defend the Faith. Do you accept?"

"You have my sword, my lord."

"What of you, Ser Rolas?"

"You must forgive my friend, Aegon. He is a shy man. He dislikes talking in front of men. He is a fine knight, however, and I offer him to serve you well."

Rolas ducked his head to the king, and Aegon looked at the man in silence for a few seconds.

"Very well. I could do with more knights of the Faith. I name you to the Order too, Ser Rolas. I ask you to serve with honour and dignity. You are to represent me in the eyes of the Smallfolk. Is this all that must be done today?"

Lothston nodded, and Aegon rose.

"My followers. We have won a great victory here, but until the Lannister lion and the Baratheon stag are bent on their knees before me, I shall not stop. I am the rightful king of the Seven Kingdoms, and I will fight until I am named as such."

The boy king stepped down from his throne then, and made to leave the room by a side exit. He followed him, and others did too. Aegon walked fast, however, ignoring them, and they didn't reach him until he was already in his rooms, his solitary knight of the Kingsguard stood guard.

"Stand aside, Daeron. I am the Hand of the King, and I must speak with Aegon."

The knight remained silent, standing resolute and staring into a distance that didn't exist just above his head.

"The Hand asked you to move, boy. I would suggest you obey."

Franklyn's large presence loomed behind him, and he saw Daeron swallow nervously.

"Let them in, Daeron. I will speak with them."

The voice came from inside the chambers, and the Kingsguard let out a visible sigh of relief. He opened the door for them.

The young king was seated in a wooden chair positioned at the window. He looked out of it, over the battlefield that he had fought upon. His hair had grown longer and shaggier, yet he managed to look smaller now than he had ever done before.

He was the first to step in, followed by Franklyn, Harry, Lothston and Jurne, the Maester of the castle.

Jurne was one of the few men that Aegon let into the room. It had been he that had fixed up the king's wounds after the battle, not one of the Golden Company's healers. He was an older man, in his late fifties, with a balding head, but a thick mustache.

"You presume a lot coming here in this way. You do not demand to see me. I invite you up here if I have anything that I desire to speak with you about."

"We cannot afford to wait here, Aegon. We have to-"

"You do not tell me what has to be done, Connington. I am the king, I am the dragon. I make the plans, not you."

"Aegon-"

"Silence! what do the rest of you come here for? I did not summon any of you."

It was Lothston that stepped forward first. He was Aegon's castellan, tasked with overseeing the running of the castle and the court.

"You grace, I would ask for you to give me five hundred men and allow me to ride but a day to Parchments. Lord Penrose is old and sickly, his heir is a young boy. I would deliver their men to your cause, and gain us a vantage point against the Lannister army."

The young king stayed silent for a few seconds, before rising from his chair and turning to look at them. He had been crying, he could see that, but was trying to hide it. His face was too red, and his eyes were still watery.

"You have my leave to do this. Avoid any fighting. Offer him peace terms and send a raven back with his demands. We will see whether or not we can offer him what he asks for."

There was a smile on Lothston's face as he left. He cared little for being castellan, and this meant that he could leave the castle and prove his metal on the battlefield.

"My grace."

It was the Maester that came forward now, his hands clasped together underneath his large, billowy sleeves.

"I received a raven from Susnpear early this morning. Doran Martell says that he is sending an emissary to Griffin's Roost. Should I request your man there to send them on to here?"

"You should. Send Caspor and Humfrey to act as an escort for them, with twenty men from the Golden Company. Get them here before the rest of the Lannister army manages to find it's way to us."

The Maester ducked his head, before shuffling out of the room. That left him with Aegon, Harry and Franklyn. It was Strickland that spoke next.

"I have to ask what you are intending to do with this castle, your grace. The Golden Company has served you well, it may serve to be fitting..."

"I will decide that when King's Landing has been delivered to me. Until then you will continue to serve me well, and when I do take my birthright I shall remember your loyal service. I will tear all of the Usurper's allies from the ground. There will be plenty land available for my loyalists."

"The Golden Company can only thank you for remembering who it was that backed your claim from the start, your grace. Now, I feel like your hand has some things he would like to discuss with you discreetly, and so I shall leave."

Strickland backed himself out of the room, his eyes fixed on the young king, who had looked away. There was greed in those eyes. He fought for opportunity, not for loyalty.

"He is a good adviser. How would you reward him, Hand? Should he be given Storm's End like he desires, or should I find some other way? His family was from the Reach originally, I hear. Maybe he would prefer Highgarden."

"Do you intend to bring all the great houses to their knees?"

"Why not? What have they done to deserve me allowing them to continue their games and their schemes."

"Mace Tyrell sided with your grandfather-"

"And then ducked his banner after keeping the bulk of his army away from the fighting. Now he openly opposes us. There were Tyrell men in that army. He is an enemy, just like all the others. Why shouldn't I destroy them and replace them with a new and better system, run by better people. You will rule the Stormlands for me, Harry can take the Reach. We will find allies elsewhere."

He flexed his gloved right hand when the boy mentioned him. He still had some movement, but it was spreading and it became harder and harder to move his fingers every day. He would rule over nothing in the name of Rhaegar's son.

"If you are to be my future Lord of the Stormlands then you will need a bride. Haldon has found one for you, or so Jurne told me yesterday. He received a raven."

"Aegon, you do too much. Strickland should not be trusted with the Reach, and I do not desire a wife. I told you this before-"

"You also told me to use the places in my Kingsguard to gain favour with lords. Marriage is another way of achieving this, is it not? And I have a lord that I need the favour of if I am to attack the capital."

"Who?"

Aegon moved over to the room's other window. This one overlooked the broiling waters of Shipbreaker Bay.

"Lord Selwyn Tarth, the Evenstar. He holds his castle under siege, but he commands three and a half thousand men, as well as a fleet of thirty ships. We need them to repace the Volantene ships that we lost. Haldon has struck a deal. We get his support, his men and his ships, and in return you wed his daughter."

"I do not wish to marry."

"I did not ask you what you wish. You are my Hand, but I am your king. If you disobey my orders directly then I will send you back to Essos and name Strickland Hand."

He looked down at his feet. He could not allow himself to fail another Targaryen prince. He had to stay loyal.

"You and Franklyn sail for Tarth today. Take two of the Volantene ships. They will carry you there. Take the two knights from this morning too, the ones from Dragonstone. They will make up my Hand's entourage."

"Very well, your grace."

He did not like leaving Aegon to be torn apart by Strickland and his pawns, but he could not defy what was asked of him. He needed to support the boy, and he was right, taming Tarth would be of great benefit.

He moved to leave then, but his king called out to him.

"Lord Connington, would you leave your king with no other words."

He turned to face the boy, and in his eyes he saw Rhaegar once more, his silver prince brought back from the mud and water of the Trident. This was his son. He could not fail his beloved once more.

"I am not sure what more you could have me say, your grace."

"A farewell would do Lord Connington. When next we speak it may be in the Red Keep. We have many battles to come. I hope that you win yours."

"And I likewise, my king. May I leave now?"

"Kiss my hand."

The request was a strange one, but it had to be done. He couldn't afford to reject his king. He may suspect something. He knelt then, and Aegon walked over to him, offering out his hand. He took it in his gloved right hand, and kissed the skin gently.

"Farewell, my friend. May we reunite soon enough, and then we can both honour my father and destroy those that usurped the throne that was rightfully his."


	16. Daenerys Targaryen

_*NOTE: Any speech written in italics is Dothraki speech translated into the common tongue so that you can understand what is being said.*_

"The dragon has to wake up, sister. The Usurper has frozen it in stone. You can reclaim it. Take the throne and our birthright. Wake the dragon. Wake the dragon."

Her brother's voice emanated around the darkness. He spoke to her, his voice softer than it ever had been whilst he had been alive. He spoke to her heart, asking for her to fulfill what he could never do.

Then he physically appeared to her. His face was gaunt and his cheekbones thin, with his silver-blond hair worn long. This had been how he had looked when they had been together with Illyrio in Pentos.

"You must find the stone dragon and wake him."

He stepped closer to her, and then his lilac eyes changed. They went from soft to hard, as they had been when he had looked at her later in his life, before she had married her sun and stars, or before he had been crowned with molten gold.

His hands caressed across her body. She now stood before him naked, without the gown that she had been wearing before. His hands moved across her breasts, pinching on her nipples. She had winced when she had been younger, but now she stood still, staring into his cold eyes.

 _He is not the dragon. He is not the dragon. He is not the dragon._

"I am the dragon, sweet sister. Do you want to wake me?"

 _He burned. He burned. He burned. A dragon doesn't burn._

That was when her brother's face twisted into a scream. His eyes went from fire to being empty. His hair matted with gold and the smoke came from his pores. He fell to the ground, reaching out for her. She watched him die. He was no dragon. He burned again.

Then a shadow fell over them. It was large, the shadow of a man stood behind her. She turned to see who had followed her brother.

Her sun and stars stood there, watching over her. His eyes were black, but within them was the love that he had for her. He didn't move to touch her as Viserys had. She tried to go to him, but instead she was rooted in place.

He turned away from her, staring off into the dark distance. When he turned again he had changed.

This was a different man. He had lilac eyes and copper skin. His golden hair fell past his waist in one long braid. In one hand he held a curved arakh, in the other was a large sword of swirling black and red metal, the pommel was beautifully decorated with a blood red ruby set in the hilt.

Then this man went too, and he was replaced by another familiar face, cowering in darkness and shadow.

Hizdhar was thinner now than he had been when she had left Meereen. His breaths were rasping and shallow. This was a man close to death. He met her eyes, and his own widened. Could he see her? How was that possible? Had she returned?

Then a shadow fell over her husband, and he was gone from her sight.

She saw more men then.

The Dornish prince stood at the helm of a ship, his two companions at his back. The bald one glowered at her, but a smile flickered on the fairer one's face. The sails billowed in an almighty wind, one that tore at their moorings and threatened to sink the entire vessel. The prince's eyes didn't leave her, however, and behind him she saw something rise from the water.

Then there was Daario, her beloved. He knelt in the dirt, alone in the dark. His lips moved quickly, but she couldn't make out what was being said. When he rose she could see he was with another man. This one was older, yet still handsome. There was sadness in his eyes.

There were others. The Shavepate, Reznak, a large man with ebony skin dressed in red robes, a larger man wearing full battle armour and carrying a mighty axe. Then there was a shorter man, a dwarf, with a woman behind him. He turned to try and look her in the eyes, but she always avoided his gaze. It was a cruel game, and the halfman called out curses and questions.

She felt sorry for the last one. Something about the woman behind him made her think that this was a man that had suffered much loss in his life.

Then she saw Jorah, the traitor, knelt before her white knight.

Jorah was wearing full plate armour, but with no cloak. She found that she could move now, and so she stepped closer, watching as Barristan Selmy handed her bear knight a white cloak.

Then the two were gone. She had seen all of them for fleeting seconds, and now she was back in the darkness. This was not the same place that her brother and sun and stars had visited her, she could tell that. This place was somewhere darker.

She felt a sweat come onto her brow, and she called out in pain. It throbbed through her body, causing her to wail and cry out for help, but none came. Her pale skin began to redden and grow sore as the pain refused to fade. She could taste Drogo's seed on her tongue. She writhed on the floor, begging for it to stop, but it didn't. Not until the darkness took her, and from then she remembered nothing.

When her eyes opened she still felt sore and tired, but the pain had faded. The sweat was still over her, and she found her face to be sticky with the water.

Some light fell onto her face from the roof above, and it temporarily blinded her so that she wasn't sure of her surroundings. She lay on a cold bed, that much she knew. It was either stone or wood, and her back ached. This was not Meereen, that much was clear, but neither was she still wandering in the Great Grass Sea. She tried to remember what had happened, but all she could picture was her brother being crowned, her husband leaving her, her friends knelt and suffering.

" _She wake. Get Khal_."

It was these words that woke her from her waking sleep. They were Dothraki words. Had a Khalasar picked her up? Were they friendly? She tried to pull herself up from her lying position, but her arms were still too weak.

In stead she rolled over onto her side, giving her a view of the door.

A large Dothraki warrior stood guard at the door, a mighty arakh in hand and a braid hanging over his shoulder. He was thick of arm and shoulder, which would have been intimidating, but he had large lips and a kind looking smile.

"Where... Where am... Where am I?"

Her words were dry and raspy, as if she hadn't drunk in some time. The man ignored her, choosing to stare off into the distance.

" _Our guest is thirsty, Breqqo. Get her water_."

Her eyes opened again, and she saw that a new man had walked into the small room. This one was more slender than his companion, with a long, thin scar that came down his right cheek. His braid was longer, and he wore golden rings upon his arm. This was a Khal.

"It is good to see you awake, Mother to Dragons. I have had my men take good care of you during your slumber. Yandel, come here. See to her and make sure that she has risen well. Then we talk."

The man spoke the common tongue well enough, which was unusual for a Dothraki Khal.

A man rushed forward when he was called. He dressed in the grey cloak of a Maester, but that was impossible. The Dothraki didn't believe in outsider medicines. What was this Khal doing having a Maester?

Yandel was in his early thirties, with close cropped hair and small, blue eyes. His hands were larger than she expected, and looked clumsy, yet they worked quickly, and he was surprisingly dexterous. His fingers danced across her body for a few seconds, before he turned back to the young Khal.

"She is ready, my Khal. Should I leave you?"

"Stay. We may have further need of your skills."

The maester dropped back, before she had any time to ask him any questions, and the young Khal took his place by her side.

"Do you know my name, dragon girl? I would not expect it, although we have met."

His hand touched her hair, as Viserys had done. His fingers ran through it gently, and he smelled it with a small smile upon his face.

"Maybe you would know my father. His name was Moro. Do you remember him?"

She did. Moro had been a friend to her sun and stars, he had answered her call for help against Yunkai. He had been there when she had met Drogo for the first time. This was his son? His son could only be a Khal if...

"He is dead. He rode for you against enemies that he should never have fought, a last favour to his friend, to your husband. My mother pleaded for him not to go, dragon girl, but he left anyway, riding out with three thousand of his finest men. You know how many returned?"

She shook her head as his hand moved to cradle her by the chin.

"Two hundred. Two hundred men of three thousand. My father was not amongst them, not all of him. He was sent to me as a gift, dragon girl. A gift from Yunkai. His head. They had taken it from his body and stuffed his braid down his throat. He fought for you and he died for you."

The man's grip began to tighten, as his fingers pressed into her skin.

"I am his khalakka, his blood. He died for you, and now you will die for him. The Dosh Khaleen will decide whether or not your blood should be offered to the Mother of Mountains, and when they decide in favour of me... I will dash your brains on the stones. You will die."

"I am a queen..."

"A queen? What are you queen of, dragon girl? The queen of a city months away? The queen of dirt and death? You are a Khaleesi of nothing, and you will die like this. You are nothing, and you will die as nothing."

His eyes met hers, and she saw fire and hatred in them. She had been responsible for the death of his father, of course he had a reason to hate her.

"Yandel. See that she is ready for this evening. Breqqo will return to collect the two of you when you are needed."

The khal left her alone with the Maester then, and his Dothraki guards followed him out. The man in grey shied away for her, however, and instead of talking with him she spent the next two hours laid on her back, contemplating what would happen if Rhogoro had his way.

It was not long before Breqqo returned. He forced her to her feet. His hands were rough and calloused, and he held her by the neck as he walked them out. The Dothraki outside all turned their heads to look at her as she walked past. How many of them had been part of Moro's Khalasar? How many of them had lost brothers, fathers or husbands to her war with the Yunkish.

 _I didn't kill Moro. The Yunish, that is where Rhogoro's hate should be directed._

They called out jeers to her, when once they had called her child the Stallion That Mounts the World. Now she was hated here when she had been loved before. The Dothraki had turned and her past had risen up to haunt her.

"To go forward you must go back..."

Quaithe's voice came to her in her head, and she thought for a second that she saw a flash of the strange woman amongst the crowds of the Dothraki women and children.

"To touch the light you must pass beneath the shadow..."

That was when she felt the coldness of the shadow of the Mother of Mountain pass over her exposed skin. The Dothraki had given her clothes to keep her hidden from wandering eyes, but still she felt exposed and abused.

"They come. Protect the dragons. Beware the Seneschal. Beware the Andal. Trust only yourself."

Then her head stopped buzzing, and it seemed like that whatever Quaithe had been trying had finished. She would need her wits about her now, and could no deal with interfering Maegi.

The grand hall of the Dosh Khaleen was at the far end of Vaes Dothrak, situated straight under the Mother of Mountains. On its right was a second building. That was where the order of priestesses would meet with the Dothraki Khals when they were called back to the city. She wondered how many had returned for her.

Outside of the two huts was a large crowd of men, gathered for her trial. These were the Dothraki's finest warriors. All of them were large and strong, though none had a braid nearly as long as her Drogo's.

One of the faces stood out to her, and it was that of a man that she knew and feared.

Mago was tall and bulky, with muscles twice the size of any other man. He stood a head or more over every other of the Dothraki gathered. He had a sadist's smile on his face as he looked at her, and his fists clenched as she passed.

He had been one of Drogo's men. It had been him that had taken Eroeh from her and had her raped countless times before her death. He was a monster. He would burn. He had to.

Rhogoro stopped at the second hut, and she had to after that. Two men were stood on the steps leading up to the priest's secondary hut. One of them was old, with wisened skin and weathered features, the other was younger, but larger, fatter than any of the Dothraki warriors. He was no Drogo.

It was the old man that stepped forward.

 _"Rhogoro, my friend. You bring the Mother of Dragons before us in chains. Her fate has not yet been decided. We are her champions. We stand for her safe protection."_

 _"She stands no chance of not being killed by me if the old man and the fat merchant stands for her. I will have her blood, Motho."_

 _"Not yet you will not. You should enter. The High Priestess wishes to speak with you. I will take the Queen from here."_

Rhogoro and Breqqo didn't move for a few seconds, but then the Khal waved his hand, and the large Dothraki dropped her chains. The weight of them pulled her to the ground. She heard the laughs of the gathered warriors. A blush started to find it's way onto her pale skin. Then suddenly there was a man knelt next to her.

It was the fat Khal. His copper skin was oiled and slick, but his braid was longer than she had thought when she had first seen him. Maybe he wasn't such a bad ally. It was he who helped her to her feet.

"You fall. Zekko help."

The old man stood before her when she rose, a kindly look in his eyes. He had a hooked nose, with light blue eyes and a long grey beard that fell to his waist. It was not often that a Khal lived this long.

"It is an honour, khaleesi. I did not think I would ever get to meet with you. I am Khal Motho, and I rule over the Great Grass Sea north and east of Volantis. That is my domain. I do not return to the Mother Mountain very often, but I came when you called. I am your champion."

"This is Zekko, the Bane of Qohor. He is your second champion. Do you know how these trials work? I imagine that you do not."

"All the Khals of the Great Grass Sea are called back to the Mother Mountain. Usually two or three may answer the call. For you we have seven. It is not often that so many Khals gather together."

"Rhogoro will make his case for your death, we will put forward for your survival, then the other Khals will be asked to decide which Khal they side with."

She looked at the two of them closely. Neither would have stood long against Drogo. Maybe Motho would have been more of a specimen when he was younger, but he was too old to pose a physical threat to any other Khal, and Zekko was too fat to be much use in a fight. He wore gold bangles and bands around his arms and neck. This was a man who cared for his riches too much.

"I thank you for standing for me, my friends. My husband told me of the friendship that he had for you."

"You flatter us, khaleesi, but there is no need to lie. Drogo saw me as little more than an old bore. He cared nothing for me."

It was true that her sun and stars had never mentioned either of them. They were both unknowns to her, so why did they feel the need to put their own lives on the line in defense of hers? They shouldn't care if Rhogoro got to offer up her blood.

"We enter. Khals not like waiting."

"Zekko is right. We should not wait any longer. Khals can be very impatient men, as I am sure that you know."

As they made the final approach up the stairs she was aware that the noise from the gathered crowd grew. She couldn't hear any cheers in favour of her. Where were Zekko and Motho's men? Had they not come? Were the Khals going against the wills of their khalasar for her?

The inside of the hut was dark, lit only by torches positioned on each of the supporting poles. The faces of the women of the Dosh Khaleen would not be touched with much sunlight here.

Four Khals were stood in a line in the centre of the room, two on either side of what seemed to be an aisle. She stepped forward, but neither Motho nor Zekko came with her. Where these the men that they would have to fight?

She scanned them, and was shocked to see three of them were familiar faces.

The one stood on the far left was the tallest of all the gathered Khals. He had no body hair, except for a moustache that fell past his face. His braid was long enough. This was Jhaqo, who had been ko to her sun and stars. He was an evil man, and she had sworn that he would beg her for mercy. He had partaken in Eroeh's death. Now he wished to help in hers, that much was clear.

Stood next to him was another that she disliked the sight of.

Pono was a head smaller than his companion, but was another that had served as a ko to Drogo, but had betrayed him before his death. At the very least he had not raped her women, but he had also never welcomed her into the khalasar. He had been one of the ones that whispered in Drogo's ear of her unfaithfulness.

Then there was the gap, with the other two Khals stood on the other side.

The next in the line was Jommo, one who had been friends with her sun and stars. He had been the other Khal to answer her call against Yunkai. Surely she could count on his support? He had been close to Moro, however. Did he hold her to blame for his friend's death?

The last man was an unfamiliar man, and was not the kind of person that she had been expecting to see within these walls. Where the other Khals opposite her were all huge, with large muscles to match their height, this man was leaner, with less muscle. There was a glint in his eyes that could not be found in the others. He smiled too, where the others grimaced or scowled.

He was also not Dothraki.

This man's skin was pale. It was almost as if he was from Westeros or one of the Free Cities. He surely had not been born of a Khal. The Dothraki did not bow to outsiders, so what was this one doing here? How had he seized his khalasar? There was something about him that reminded her of Daario, the man that she had left behind, but she couldn't tell what it was about this stranger.

Then Rhogoro entered the room from the back. Two women came in with him. One of them was a young woman, still beautiful and not yet past childbirthing age, the other was an old crone, wisened woth thinning grey hair. These were the representatives of the Dosh Khaleen.

" _Daenerys Stormborn._ "

It was the older woman that talked. When she tried to smile she revealed that she had lost almost all her teeth, with one of the front ones the only exception.

" _I am Maego, widow of Bharbo, father to Drogo. I am the High Priestess of the Dosh Khaleen. You have met Rhogoro, your accuser. May I introduce you to Leyla, widow of Moro._ "

Drogo's mother was still alive? Why hadn't her son and stars told her? why would he keep this a secret? Had he been embarrassed of her?

" _I have come to offer a change in how we operate here. The Dosh Khaleen have had a vision showing a dragon and a stallion twisting together, engaging in combat. We are offering the accused a trial by combat. She should choose her champion, who will face Rhogoro._ "

She turned to her two defenders. Neither of them were fit to fight the young Khal. He may not have been as strong as Pono or Jhaqo, but he was still in better condition than Zekko or Motho.

" _I will stand for the Mother of Dragons._ "

She hoped that Jommo had stepped forward, but instead she found herself looking into the twinkling eyes of the pale Khal.

" _Andal. You should not be here._ "

" _I am as much a Khal as you, Rhogoro. Moreso even. I fought for my right to lead, as is the Dothraki way. You inherited it. That seems more Andal to me._ "

The young Khal growled, but made no move to challenge his counterpart. Was Rhogoro scared of the pale skinned Khal? What could he have done to earn such fear and respect?

"Will we be fighting today?"

Rhogoro had to bite his tongue once again, but eventually he spoke. When he did the words were spat out.

"There will be no fight today, Andal. Take the bitch. She is yours to fuck how you want."

Motho and Zekko were quick to move to her side and pull her out of the hut. It was almost as if they were prepared. Her eyes caught with those of the pale Khal, and then of Drogo's mother, and then it dawned on her. They had saved her, but why?

There was a clamouring crowd outside now, and calls of displeasure when she stepped out with Zekko on one side and Motho in front. Pale men with braids rushed forward to clear a path for them. Were these the men of the pale Khal?

"We should hurry, Khaleesi. Go with Zekko. We will meet again soon."

Motho smiled at her with his kind eyes and reedy lips once again, and then he faded into the crowd.

"We go fast. Quick quick."

Zekko grabbed her by the arm and pulled her down the aisle that was quickly being formed. Before they left the square she turned and saw Rhogoro, Pono and Jhaqo storm out of the hut. That was when she was grabbed by Zekko's men.

They were each as large as their master, and none of them had any expression on their face. They crowded around her and blocked her from seeing what was unfolding behind them, but she could hear Rhogoro calling out in Dothraki.

The men walked faster than she, with long strides despite their large girths. She was swept along with them, however, and soon they were on the edge of the Dothraki city.

She was surprised at who was waiting for her.

Motho was stood with ten older men, all of whom had bows strapped over their shoulders, and each was holding two horses. Zekko's men quickly took one each, with most of them choosing to ignore her. The Khal himself turned to her and nodded.

"Goodbye, Khaleesi Stormborn."

That was all that he could manage before climbing up on his own stallion and riding away, his men at his back.

"We must be soft, khaleesi. Already Rhogoro prepares his troops. They will ride after us if we do not go now, and my men can't stand against him."

He wasn't wrong. Motho's men were almost as old as he was, and all of them had a kind appearance, not one of men who were experts at dealing out death.

She would ride behind the Khal, and soon enough she was sat with her arms around the man's waist. She was glad that she was with kind, thin Motho at this point. She wasn't sure that she could have reached around Zekko, and the weight of both of them may have killed his horse.

She was surprised, however, when they started riding, as, instead of following Zekko and riding south, Motho led his men northwest.

"Why are we leaving Zekko?"

She called out to the elderly Khal, concerned for her other champion.

"Rhogoro saw you leaving with him. His men will go after Zekko first. By then we should have enough time to get back to camp.

So Zekko and his men were riding to their deaths? Why? Why would they do that for her. That was when she remembered Viserys visiting her. Zekko would be another of the dead that she left in her wake. She would have deserved the fate that Rhogoro wanted for her.

They rode for hours without stopping. She wasn't sure how long it would take Rhogoro to catch up with Zekko, but it seemed likely that he was already dead. Why had he been willing to sacrifice himself for her? They had only just met.

The long ride eventually led them somewhere beyond the grass of the Dothraki Sea. Something about being back here calmed her down. It reminded her of simpler times, although she would not have her sun and stars waiting for her when she got back.

Before them there was a large Dothraki camp. Many men were stood in one place, waiting for them, no doubt. Were these the remainders of Zekko and Motho's men? What of the pale Khal?

Motho himself helped her down from the horse when they arrived, but it was not he that she found on his knee when she turned away from the beast. This one was younger, with larger muscles and a larger body.

It didn't take long for her to put a name to the body.

"Rakharo. What are you doing here?"

"I come for Khaleesi. I welcomed in by Andal Khal. He tell me my khaleesi return soon."

"The Andal Khal... How comes it that I have not heard of him."

"Other Khals no like. They push away. He different. He not one of us. It is known, khaleesi."

She thought of the way that the man's eyes had twinkled in the firelight of that hut. Most Dothraki had black, fearsome eyes. There was something nice about the fact that his were different.

"Where can I find him?"

"In main tent. He with Andal and Grey Cloak."

Could the one that Rakharo called Grey Cloak be the Maester from Vaes Dothrak? Had he been in on the conspiracy with the High Priestess of the Dosh Khaleen and the three Khals that had saved her?

It didn't take her long to find the tent that her bloodrider had meant. It was the only one with colour, being an ornate blue, with white trappings and red flaps where the door was meant to be. Something about it felt right.

Inside the tent there was a perfumed feeling, and the air was thick with a sweet smelling smog. There were three men gathered here. The first was a tall knight, and for a second she thought that it was Jorah. It wasn't. The man was soon knelt before her.

"My grace, it is an honour to meet you at last. I am Ser Humfrey Hightower, fourth son of the Warden of the Port. I ask to be taken into your service."

Viserys had told her of the Hightowers of Oldtown when she was younger. They had stayed loyal to the Targaryens when they had needed them most, and a Hightower had even guarded her father. They were an old and powerful family.

"Do you have a bride, Ser Humfrey?"

"I do not, your grace."

"Then I would name you as my third knight of the Kingsguard. May you serve the realm with honour and serve me with your loyalty."

"You have my word, my queen. I will wear the white cloak as it should be worn, upholding everything that it represents."

She moved on to the second figure then. This man was less the handsome youth that the knight had been. He was older, but there was no kindness in him like there had been in Motho. His face had twisted with age, and nose hairs were visibly untrimmed.

"Mother of Dragons. I must introduce myself. I am Marwyn, Archmaester of the Citadel. I have come to serve as your advisor and Grand Maester, if you would have me."

"Did the Citadel send you to me."

"I come of my own volition. The grey sheep prefer to keep themselves uninvolved in the events of war."

"Then I would gladly take you with me, Lord Marwyn, for you have shown me extreme loyalty."

The last man was just the person that she had hoped to see. The pale Khal. Something about this man captivated her attention. Maybe that was why he reminded her of Daario.

"You are my saviour."

"It was nothing, Mother of Dragons. You will save us all from what is coming. I consider that to be more than a debt repaid."

"What should I call you?"

"I am Khal Rogero, son to Khaleesi Merdaro. I am the Andal Khal. I am your friend and your ally, wherever you may need me."

"And tell me, Rogero, son of Merdaro, what do you gain from saving me."

The twinkle returned to his eyes as he gave the one word answer, a smile playing on his lips.

"Revenge."


	17. The Watcher at the Wall

He stood at the back of the crow's Shieldhall, his hood covering his face from their view. They would never have allowed him to be here had they known him not to be one of their crow brothers.

The fat red one was sat where Lord Snow should have been. He talked of loyalty to their brothers, and of the betrayal of the Free Folk. His people had never killed Snow. This man was not one to talk of loyalty. It was this man's knives that had seen for the Crow King, not the knife of one of the Free Folk.

"I now that the death of our young Lord Commander has hit us all hard. Rest assured that we will not sit back and allow this betrayal. Should I be the one that you choose to lead the Night's Watch during it's greatest time of need. I am the man that can make the changes needed to ensure our own future."

"Murderer!"

There was a call from some areas of the hall. The crows clearly weren't happy with this man either. Some of them at least had supported King Crow. If this fat man was elected then the Free Folk would suffer. He did not care for the winter wind that was coming. He furthered his own hatred and brought it through in the crows.

He didn't count himself as a crow loyalist. Mance had been one once, and Lord Snow had saved them when they needed it most. Val had seen the man's knives enter his commander's body, however. He knew the truth.

It was another crow that stepped forward then. This one was dressed in finer clothes than the others. His cloak didn't have patches, and he wore furs over his shoulders to protect himself from the cold.

"Lord Snow was killed by the wildlings that he saw fit to let past the Wall. It was nothing more than that. We have to now choose ourselves a Lord Commander who can avenge our fallen brother."

"We should avenge our fallen brother by hanging the traitors that murdered him!"

That call had come from a young boy stood nearby to him. This one smelled of sweet scents, and lacked muscle on his arms and chest. His hair was long and curled, made up of black ringlets. Maybe there was more bravery in this one than he would have given him credit for. Not every crow would have called out like this one had.

The fat man stood behind the high bench began to grow redder, and he started to splutter. This was not the face of an innocent man. This crow was not a man that could lie. He would surely be found out soon enough.

There was an uglier crow sat besides the fat one. This one was bald and short, with a thick waist and no chin. He had a dirty face, as most of the crows did. His nose was wonky, as if it had been broken when he was younger. It was this one that stood forward.

"We must have our nominations before we decide. Can those who want to stand for their nominees please now stand forward and talk of their virtues."

The man was old, and his voice was thin and reedy. He didn't have any authority or confidence. He seemed out of place. It was another of those sat at the bench that rose next.

"I, Wick Wittlestick, would like to offer my name to the support of Bowen Marsh to be named the nine hundred and ninety ninth Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. Bowen has served the Watch as Lord Steward for more than twenty years. It was Bowen that beat back the Weeper at the Battle of the Bridge of Skulls. He is the only reasonable appointment in these dark times."

These words brought forth a mixed reaction from the gathered crows. Many cheered, including the finely dressed one, whilst others called out the words traitor and murderer. The man to his left shifted his feet as this crow spoke.

Ser Denys Mallister was an old man, but one that had been feared amongst the Free Folk. Mallister had been a friend to Mance and the Halfhand in their youth, and had cut down his fair share of raiders.

Mance had told him stories of the old commander of the Shadow Tower. Mallister had been the one that first instructed him in the art of the sword, and had encouraged him with his talent for music. They had grown distant when his mentor had been named as commander of he castle. He had ridden with the Mallister and his men for the last few days, as they made their way to Castle Black. They had talked little in that time.

Soren and Harle had ridden with them, to the distaste of some of Mallister's men, but he had insisted. Crowl had taken his men to the Gift, where he would spread the true story of Snow's death. Ygon and Toregg had made their own ways, with their pivotal missions in place.

There was another crow talking now. This one was as old as the others, but his winters had been harder to him. His clothes were dirty, and one of his legs was gone half way down, and had been replaced with a wooden stick.

"-and that is why Othell Yarwyck is the righ' man for the Watch."

This earned a few cheers, but fewer than there had been for Marsh. Yarwyck was the old crow with the protruding jaw. He remembered Snow speaking of him.

"This is nonsense. The Watch doesn't need a traitor steward or a bloody builder. It needs a ranger. Someone who knows the breath of winter and knows how to fight what is coming."

The man who spoke these wasn't as old as the others that had offered their insights. He was tall too, with jet black hair and eyes like lightning. His voice was thunder. This was not a man that should be treated lightly.

"And I suppose that you think you are that man, Liddle."

That was the well dressed crow from before.

He knew the name Liddle. They were among the mountain clansmen of the North. Their people had fought the Free Folk raiders for years, until a grudging respect for their ways had grown north of the Wall. The men of the mountain clans were better than most kneelers.

"At no point did I say that, Hewett. I would stand for another. Iron Emmett has served the Watch for more than half of his life. He has spent fifteen years in service to the Watch. He has felt the touch of winter when north of the Wall. He was the Master-at-Arms to many here, and had served Eastwatch-by-the-Sea with dedication and commitment. He is the man that our Watch needs."

These words received some calls of support, but derision from elsewhere.

"He is the best choice so far."

Mallister whispered to him under the noise.

"Emmett is a good man by most regards. He followed Jon Snow in his ways. He would likely honour the promises that were made to your people."

Many other crows stood and talked for their friends. Denys himself was put forward as a candidate by Mullin, the Maester that had ridden with them from the Shadow Tower. A man called Ulmer was put forward by one of the rangers, and another mountain clansmen would be spoken of. This one was a Harclay.

Eventually all of the crows had decided that they no longer wanted to speak. The ugly, old crow from before stood once again.

"We have the nominations. Those put forward are Lord Steward Bowen Marsh-"

Here the man was interrupted by jeers and calls for blood. He carried on regardless.

"First Builder Othell Yarwyck, Iron Emmett, Commander of Long Barrow, Ser Denys Mallister, Commander of the Shadow Tower, Ulmer, and Ronnel Harclay. Does anyone else wish to speak? No? Then we should move outside. There are too many gathered for us to do the choosing in the Shieldhall."

The crows all moved themselves outside. Some of them shuffled as they did, whilst elsewhere there was pushing and shoving. The tempers here were raised. Something bad could happen if the required spark was given.

Mallister had to leave him then, and it was Mullin that stood by his side instead. He had to have a watch according to the kneeler knight. He wasn't to be trusted. Not until the right time at least. He cast his eye up to the gatehouse. Two guards were on duty there.

Halder was the tall one. He was a boy short on wit, but a good drinker and had some force in his muscles. His companion was Toad, an ugly boy. He was shorter than his friend, with piggy eyes and a grating voice.

The six brothers of the Watch that had been nominated made their way to stand beneath the Wall. Mallister found himself on the far right hand side of the line, stood besides the one that called himself Ulmer. That one was another old crow whose name was whispered with fear to young children. His skill with a bow was that of legend.

The progress was slow. The ugly, fat crow stood between them, and called the crows forward one by one. Each crow signed his name off and stood himself behind one of the candidates.

Most of the men stood behind Mallister or Marsh, but a few chose Emmett or Yarwyck. Mullin looked back to him as he was called up, and he, unsurprisingly, went to stand behind Mallister.

Crows passed him slowly, going one by one to their preferred choice of Lord Crow. He spotted the pretty boy from before standing behind the one that they had called Iron Emmett. Soon all the crows had found their way across. That left him stood on this side, all alone for the first time in days.

"And you, brother. What is your name?"

He stood silent as the ugly man spoke to him, doing nothing but moving his hands up to his hood. There was a gasp of breath as he pulled it down.

"That's Tormund Giantsbane!"

One of the crows called out. It was one of them stood behind the fat, redfaced one. He was the one that had the most men behind him, but the gap between him and Mallister wasn't that large.

"Well, what are you waiting for, rangers. Grab him!"

Two of the red-faced men ran forwards at that point, reaching for the swords that they wore at their belts.

"Come any closer to me, crow, and I will remove your cold, frigid cock from between your legs. Is that what you want?"

That caused the two of them to stop, but Marsh called out to them again.

"He is alone and unarmed, you fools! Don't be scared of him!"

That caused the two of them to find their bravery again, and they continued the charge. He hadn't wanted any crows to die this early, but he wouldn't let himself be killed off by boys. He dodged the first slash of the first one, and grabbed him by his cloak as he carried on past, slamming him to the floor. The boy's sword flew out of his hands and scattered across the frosted ground. He kicked at the boy's neck, causing it to crack, and for the lad to die almost instantly.

His companion had stopped his advance after seeing what had become of his friend. This one was smarter and less foolhardy, but no less green. He charged straight at the crow, who tried to raise his sword up as a defense, but it was weak and he went flying.

"Do any more crows want to test themselves against me? I would happily kill more of you, if you were among the men that killed King Crow. You blame my people for your crimes. The actions of a kneeling coward."

"You have no place here, wildling. Stand down and hand yourself over as a prisoner of the Night's Watch."

"And who would have me do this?"

"I am Bowen Marsh, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. I order you-"

"You order me, crow? You order me? I am a leader of the Free Folk. I have killed more men than coins you have counted. Ask your crow brother what happens when kneelers order me."

"That is enough, wildling. You have been ordered to stand down. Do I have to make you?"

That was the man in the finer black clothes. This was one of the kneeling knights that cowered in their stone wall houses. Who was this man to give orders to him?

"Stand yourself down, Ser Glendon."

Mallister had stepped forward then, his own hand raised on the pommel of his sword. He had never seen the old man fight, but he must be good. You didn't live through as many winters as this man had without being some way adept at defending yourself.

"It was I that invited our friend of the Free Folk to the Wall. He is here as my guest."

"You have gone soft on the wildlings, Mallister? Do you not remember what they did to Lord Snow."

Mutters started to emanate from the gathered crows. Some of them went so far as to reach for their own weapons. He looked up at the two boys ready at the gate. They were still young, like Torwynd had been. Winter would take them both, like as not.

"I remember hearing the Free Folk whisper their thanks to Lord Snow as they came through the Wall. I remember them settling in the Gift, safe from the living dead because of Jon Snow. I do not see why they would have any reason to kill him."

The fat man's face went red at that point, and he started to fluster.

"Ser Denys, are you accusing your Lord Commander of treason? I-I have never-"

"Why shouldn't I, Marsh? You did exactly the same to Jon Snow, did you not. Tell me, which one of your lackeys was it that delivered the final blow? Did you do that yourself? Was it Wittlestick? Donnel Hill? Was it Hewett here?"

"You accuse me of murder, Mallister? Maybe I should spill your blood upon the snow!"

The crow that they called Hewett roared at the top of his breath, and made a step to charge towards the old commander of the Shadow Tower. He was stopped when a number of Mallister's men stepped forward with their own weapons drawn.

"I do enjoy watching crows fight. It means that there is less work for me to do mind. I cannot let you kill your new Lord Commander, however."

He stepped closer to the large knight, and that meant the man had to turn to him, raising his sword again, as if to warn him off.

"Bowen Marsh has been chosen as the Lord Commander, wildling. Hand yourself over and we will lock you up with your traitor master."

That comment caused him to bristle. He thought that the Free Folk would ever class a crow as their master? Mance had been their king and even he had never had that honour. This one was itching to be killed.

"Aye, the crows here have made their pick. I'm not sure that the final decision has been made, however."

That was when he heard the signal. There was two blows on the horn from Halder. That meant that the last part of the plan was about to be put into play.

"Two blows mean wildlings!"

It was Hewett that rushed to the defence and not Marsh, who remained stood where he had been, gawping at Mallister. This man was not fit to lead a herd of sheep. How the Weeper had been beaten by this one he wasn't sure.

"Open the gates!"

Those were Mallisters words, called out across the sound of panic in the Castle Black courtyard. There was silence after them, as men turned to look at him questioningly. When the creaks started to come from the ancient wooden gates as Halder and Toad opened them, they turned their attention there.

Ygon stepped through the gate first, with another man at his back. This newcomer was leaner than Ygon, with grey hair that pushed back on his head. His eyes were grey too, and looked older than the man that they belonged to. The fact that he dressed in bronze greaves showed him to be a Thenn. This must be Styr's son.

"You let the wildlings into our midst, Mallister? I should have gutted you when I had the chance!"

"I do not bring wildlings before you, Hewett. I bring you five hundred new brothers of the Night's Watch. Men and women that have been widowed in this war that were willing to swear to the black as a last thank you to their Lord Commander. Their votes turn this choosing in my favour, I think."

"You- You would win the choosing for the Night's Watch on the votes of wildlings? This will not stand, Mallister. Brothers, to arms!"

Hewett raised his sword then, as many of the brothers called out their calls of support. They were cut short, however, when an arrow hit the knight in the hand. Eyes then turned on Ulmer, who had his bow out. Emmett and Harclay had taken their positions behind the archer.

"We fight for Lord Commander Jon Snow, he who was murdered on the orders of the traitor, Bowen Marsh."

Mallister stepped towards Hewett, his hands now away from his sheathed weapon.

"If you truly value the Night's Watch and your brothers then you would order them to stand down and hand themselves over. We do not wish for brother to fight brother here."

Hewett was breathing heavily. He slowly moved his weaker hand up to where the arrow had penetrated his skin. In one quick pull he removed it.

"You are all treacherous bastards, Mallister. I will see your treasonous blood stain the snow."

"If that is how it has to be."

Then a blur began. It was one of Hewetts men that swung at Mallister, but Mullin got in the way. Ygon and the Thenn boy led the Free Folk charge at Marsh and his men, but Yarwyck rushed to his defense. A few of the brothers, including the old, ugly one that had overseen the choosing, scurried to the side, not wanting to get involved.

A few crows charged at him, but he ended them as he had the ones from before. He saw Toregg amongst the Free Folk men and rushed over to him.

"This went better than we thought it would, father."

"It did. Did you bring it?"

"I did."

"Good."

Toregg handed him his axe. It was a large and heavy weapon, not making it good for dealing with faster opponents, but hopefully he wouldn't need it for much of a fight. He could see the winch elevator climbing the face of the Wall. Marsh was making his way to the top of the Wall. They had to hurry.

"Come with me!"

He called out, and a few of the men followed as he ran through the thick of the battle. Some of them were lost in the fighting, so when he arrived at the foot of the stairs he had two men and Toregg.

Fortunately Emmett was waiting with his men, as they had planned before the choosing ceremony. These were men that were willing to die to secure Jon Snow's memory.

"Come, friend. We have a long way to climb."

Indeed they did. He had scaled the Wall many times in his youth, but this climb in his old age was a hard one. Marsh sent men down to slow the ascent every now and again, but they were easily enough dispatched. Toregg took half of their men to set up a blockade half way up, preventing Marsh's remaining men from making a push up the stairs.

When they reached the top they found that their enemy had set up a blockade of their own by the top of the stairs and the winch lift. Emmett stepped forward first, as was the plan, in an attempt to negotiate the surrender of the crows that had come with their traitor commander.

"Horse, do not do this. I trained you in arms. You don't have to do this. Jon was your friend. Honour him."

"The wildlings killed him, just like they did with my family. You are a traitor for fighting with them, Emmett. You will die for it."

The large one that Emmett had been addressing charged forward, but didn't last long. His first strike was slow, and was parried easily. He didn't get time for a second one, as he found Emmett's sword thrust through his gut. The boy fell down face-forward as it was pulled out.

"That was a shame. Any more of you want to have a go."

There was no movement for a few seconds, and then everything went to shit all at once.

Three of Marsh's guard charged forward to attack Emmett, but one was felled almost straight away with a Free Folk axe embedded in his forehead. Emmett cut another one of them down easily, with a slash to the knee and another to the throat.

Then he charged in, smashing his great axe through the breastplate of one of the crows that had held back. The metal caved in, and the crow died near instantly.

There wasn't much of a fight. Most of Marsh's guard were builders or stewards, and few of them had been trained well to fight in close combat. The line was broken easily, and soon he was facing the old steward.

"Stand down now. Mallister will give you a fair trial."

"I did what I did because it had to be done. Your kind, your people, you have devestated this realm time and again. He would have destroyed us by bringing you south. He would have destroyed the Watch. If the survival of this order means that I have to die then I will. I will not have my actions judged by wildlings. I did what I had to, and I would gladly do it again."

"He was a boy."

"He was destroying everything that our order has stood for. Centuries of tradition and thousands of brothers. That was what Jon Snow was destroying. I couldn't watch it happen with a clean conscience."

"So murder was the answer? You crows have a strange sense of moral. Lord Snow saved lives with what he did. You would kill him for that?"

"I did, and I would again."

"Then you are lost."

Out of nowhere the old crow charged at him, pulling a knife out from his sleeves. His axe was still embedded in the chest of the crow that he had killed on his way to confront Marsh. He had to blindly push the old man away. He felt a short pain in his hand, and then heard a scream. When he opened his eyes he found Marsh' knife in his hand, but no sign of its owner. He looked around. Where could he have gone?

His eyes connected with Emmett, who was standing over the body of four of his crow brothers. The man's mouth was open as he stared at the edge of the Wall. Had he thrown Marsh over the edge?

"We are done here then."

Emmett sheathed his sword, not moving his eyes away from him. A few of Marsh's crows had surrendered themselves. One of their crows had died, but none of the Free Folk.

"We should bring these men before Ser Denys. He will be anxious for them."

The descent was even longer than the ascent, and the fighting had finished by the time that they reached the bottom. Mallister was standing in front of the winch lift, with three of the enemies knelt behind him.

"We have won a great victory today, my brothers. The traitors have been defeated. We have retaken the Wall, and we can now lead our defence."

The old man's eyes met his as his foot touched the ground. He shook his head, and Mallister frowned sadly.

"I am officially removing Othell Yarwyck and Glendon Hewett from their positions. They will be tried for their roles in the death of Jon Snow. Iron Emmett will serve as commander of Eastwatch, Ulmer will command the defense of the Shadow Tower, and Ronnel Harclay will serve as First Ranger. That is all that I have to say now."

Emmett and Harclay then took over, and Mallister gestured for him to follow him to the chambers of the Lord Commander.

"It is a shame that you could not bring us Marsh. He would have made a valuable prisoner in the trials. I have arrested ten of the men that I believe to be involved in the treason, but others may slip through the cracks. Right now I cannot have large amounts of the Free Folk at Castle Black. One hundred will return to the Shadow Tower, fifty each will be distributed across some of the other occupied castles along the Wall."

Mallister seated himself in the Lord Commander's chair. He didn't speak for a few seconds as he visibly took in his new position.

"You cannot be here either, Tormund. I have agreed to send you with a few members of the Watch as an escort."

"Where am I being escorted?"

"The young Thenn marches for Karhold with a few hundred of his men. He intends to ask for refuge in the castle that belongs to his wife's brother, I believe. You are to go with him. Eddison Tollett will be your squire on the journey. Find him in the stables. He will tell you more."

He nodded to the old man that he had helped raise. He had cared little for the old Magnar of the Thenns, but had never truly met the man's only son. They had been present for war councils under Mance, and had both been part of Mallister's plan, but they had never met.

The courtyard of Castle Black was full of crows gathered around pyres. Some cried over their friends, others stood resolute. Some of the fires had already been lit, and heat radiated off them. They burned their dead. The Free Folk would be doing the same somewhere else.

He found Tollett in the stables. This was another man that Lord Snow had talked about often. They had been friends, and Snow had trusted this man. He was a highborn kneeler, but one from a poor family, that was what he had said. He was more grey than black, with greyed hair and his skin looked grey in the dark.

There was another crow with him. The boy from the shieldhall before, the brave one that smelled of sweet smells and perfume. Was he one of the men that was coming south with them?

"I'm telling you, Edd, his body was gone. It was there this morning, I checked. It was there as it has been for the rest of the week. I ran up to him after the fighting, to tell him that Marsh was dead, and he was gone. There was no sign of him. The direwolf had gone too."

"Well, young Satin, the dead are walking now so it should be no surprise that Lord Snow is too. He is dead, is he not. The peace that he would have once hoped for has been denied him. By the Old Gods, I hope I outlive this winter. I don't want to be doing all the shit jobs even after I die."

"There's something weird afoot here, Edd. Should I be telling Mallister?"

"He will find out soon enough, boy. You would be better off going and mourning for your brothers that died today. Some of them were good men."

The boy nodded to his companion, and rushed out of the stables through the other door. He hadn't even seen him watching them.

King Crow's body was gone? Had the winter taken him? Maybe Val would offer some insight. What the steward had said wasn't wrong. The dead were not staying dead. The dead were coming, and now they had Jon Snow at their head.


	18. Bran Stark

He walked through the corridors of the Red Keep, enjoying the feeling of the weight that his legs could carry. He sometimes just entered the weirwoods so that he could walk. Here he did not need Hodor or Meera to help him walk. He could walk by himself. He didn't need help.

The old man had helped him find his way through the world of the weirwoods. At first he had only been able to look through their eyes and watch what they had seen. Now he was able to travel wherever he wanted, but no matter what he came here.

At first he had gone to Winterfell, but that just reminded him of what had happened. It reminded him of Mikken and Rodrik, of Gage and Chayle, of Alebelly and Hullen. It reminded him of Robb and Arya, of Sansa and Jon, of mother and father.

Here he had no memories. Here he could watch the events of the realm unfold. Here he could whisper in their ears and twist their thoughts. He told the lion queen of her enemies, whispered of their plots, whispered thoughts of her brother and the spider. He drove her mad because of what she did to his family.

There were others, though. There were other players here. He liked the septon, the one that hated the lions as much as he did. Then there was the bloody maester, who kept his motives close to himself, but he knew. He had looked into his mind and seen.

There had been another lion before, the uncle to the queen. He had been a good man, but a Lannister at the same time. He had died at the hands of the spider. It had been him that gave the suggestion.

Varys was a useful pawn. He hated anything connected with the occult, and that was a way that he could be used and manipulated. The old man had done it before him, whispering in his ears during the age of the dragon kings.

Two turns of corners took him into the small council chamber. All of the lords and knights were gathered around the table. There was a new face here, however. She had olive skin and dark hair, with high cheekbones and dark eyes that somehow glittered in the torchlight. There was a thin smile on her face, but no happiness in her face. She had thoughts of death in her mind. She wanted it, she desired it, she lusted for it.

Her seat was opposite the bloody maester, but she did not look at him, instead concentrating her gaze on the golden lord that sat next to the fat Lord Regent. The girl looked like Nymeria, the ancient Rhoynish warrior woman that Arya had loved the stories of. She had named her direwolf after her, he remembered.

He had looked for Arya at first, but the old greenseer had told him that she was dead. That had brought tears to his eyes, and Brynden had scolded him.

"Death happens, boy. If you want to learn to fly then you have to accept that. You will face hard choices, and in some you will see your family burn or suffer, but they must be made. You are Bran Stark, the direwolf that can howl in our time of greatest need. You have to learn how to save us all quicker than anyone ever should."

He had steeled him in the visions. The old man had shown him Robb and his mother, both dying alone and far away. Then his father, murdered for a crime that he did not commit. Then he watched the others. He called out as Theon suffered, he whimpered as Jon died, he tried to save his aunt and uncle.

But in the end he just watched them all die. That was all he was good for.

In the ashes of these thoughts the Broken Boy was born. He spoke of revenge. He used the visions of those that he had loved dying as inspiration, as a way to spur himself on. He used them to grow. Now he had a purpose. He had to get the revenge that he deserved. He had to avenge his family.

His wanderings through the corridors of the Red Keep had taken him up two flights of stairs. There was a man here, a knight, dressed all in armour. It was dark outside, where it had been light moments before. This man was of the Kingsguard, but it was none of the ones that he recognised. It wasn't either of the queen's pawns, nor was it the dying one or the fat one. Was this a new man?

No. This man was old. Older than anything that Bran had seen that day. How could he be looking back in time without even knowing it?

This man had pale skin, so he wasn't from the sands of Dorne, and his hair was silvery gold. That was a Valyrian feature. Was this a Targaryen? Aemon the Dragonknight had served in the Kingsguard. Maybe it was him.

The most distinguishing thing about this man were his eyes. They were a haunting lilac colour. They contained sadness and steel.

His eyes were drawn away from the man's face and onto his armour. It was made of white, enamelled steel, and on the breastplate was a gilded dragon, it's three heads roaring.

The sword was even stranger. It shimmered in the light, as if it was Valyrian Steel, but was pale instead of dark, as Ice had been. The pommel had a falling star engraved upon it. This was not Valyrian Steel. This was Dawn, and that meant...

This man was the Sword of the Morning. This man was Ser Arthur Dayne.

No sooner had Bran realised the identity of the man that he was looking at than the scene started to disintegrate around him. First the walls and the tapestries went, then the door that Dayne was guarding, leaving him alone with the white knight.

Then a new room started to form around them. This one was much grander. This was the main hall of the Red Keep. He recognised it from his visions. There was a difference now. The room was darker, lit only by torches along the wall. There were four tables laid down along the length of the hall.

High above them were the skulls of monstrous dragons, gazing down at the feasters with their mouths opened wide, as if they were about to bathe the entire party in their destructive and all consuming flames.

He walked down one of the aisles, watching the gathered knights and lords. None of them stood out to him. These were not important men, but they were each Targaryen loyalists. One of them wore a sigil with two antlers, another had six silver stars on a purple field. The sigils were foreign to him.

Soon he found himself stood right before the great Iron Throne. Two knights of the Kingsguard stood at the approach to the seat. Neither of them was Arthur Dayne. One of them was wearing a helmet emblazoned with a black bat. This must be Oswell Whent, one of Aerys' Kingsguard.

The other was younger than his companion, and Oswell wasn't old. He had green eyes, like those of a cat, and flowing hair that was the colour of gold. As he stared into this man's eyes he started to hear something.

"The things I do for love..."

These words started to repeat themselves over and over in his head, and soon it started to hurt him. He closed his eyes and held his head in pain. When the noise faded and he opened his eyes he found himself looking at one of the guests.

There was an old man that he had walked past only a few minutes before. He was stood before the rest of the crowd and had raised his chalice. He was making a toast, and it seemed that the rest of the room agreed, as he was met with resounding cheers and calls of agreement from the gathered nobles.

The man was ageing. He looked to be older than fifty, maybe even by twenty years. His hair was grey and thin, swept over his head to hide the fact that he was going bald. His eyes were grey too, and dead inside. There was no life in this man. He wore robes of green and white, clasped together by an ornate mace and dagger that crossed together.

As the rest of the hall called out there support for the Mad King he looked to where Aerys should be, but instead of a man sat on the Iron Throne, all he could see was a dark shadow, looming over all of them. The shadow had a face, a grin of teeth as sharp as daggers, and eyes that seemed to be made of green pits of fire. He looked away from the abomination. This was fear incarnate.

His eyes were then drawn to another one of the nobles that had gathered here. This one was not applauding like the others were, nor was he drinking. He was stood at the side of the room, watching on as he was. He had fiery red hair, and his arms were crossed over his chest. His eyes, despite their pale blue colour, showed more boredom than interest. He was waiting for something.

Just then a younger knight came to his side and whispered something in the man's ear. A smile came onto the young lord's face for the briefest of seconds, and he turned on his heels to leave the room.

He followed the fiery haired lord, out of the great hall first, then up several flights of stairs, along a few corridors and around many corners, before eventually they reached the room that he had been in front of before. Arthur Dayne was here still, stood his guard and doing his duty. This time he was not frozen, and he moved to acknowledge the newly arrived lord.

"I hear that my silver prince is expecting me, Arthur."

"He is inside, Connington."

The response from the Kingsguard knight was frostier than the welcome that the one that he had called Connington had given. If there was any ill will in this relationship then it came mostly on the behalf of the Sword of the Morning.

The scene then started to fade again, and it was this time replaced with a walkway overlooking the city of King's Landing. Three men were gathered here, all dressed in the white enamel of the Kingsguard. One of the men was Arthur Dayne. He could tell that from the silvery hair. Another of the three was the golden haired knight from the feast. The last was the oldest of the three.

He was square faced, with jet black hair and small eyes. His shoulders were broad and his arms thick, but he lacked the height that he needed to truly make himself an imposing threat. The three of them looked out over the city.

"It is your duty to serve them, brother. Whatever he may do. He is the king and we are his kingsguard."

That was the older man. His voice was thick and strong. Dayne spoke next. His was lighter, but no less serious.

"Our fates tie with them, Jaime. Jon is right. we do our duty to serve and protect them, as we swore when we were first given our white cloaks. We are the guards to the king, whatever they may say of him behind his back, and whatever he does. We live to protect."

"You watch what he does and agree with everything? You can honestly say that you can live with yourself watching what he has been responsible for?"

"Sometimes it is hard. We do not live to judge him, only follow the orders that he gives. Separate your own conscience from what you have to do under the oaths of the white cloaks. We are all good men, honourable men. I know that you are too. You have to know it yourself."

Dayne put his hand on Jaime Lannister's back. He tried to call out to the Sword of the Morning. He tried to tell him what he knew about Jaime. He knew that Lannister had no honour. He would kill the king. He would break his oaths, and Dayne would die for it.

The Sword of the Morning couldn't hear him here, not in the past. He couldn't change what had to happen. Lannister had to kill the Mad King. That was a set event in time. That was what Bloodraven had called it anyway.

He had said that there were certain moments in time that could not be messed with, because they were definite moments that had to occur. He couldn't tell Dayne to turn on Aerys, because without Aerys killing his namesake then he would never be born. For him to become the Last Greenseer Brandon Stark had to die.

He could talk to those that lived in his time. He could whisper ideas into the Spider's head, or tell the lion queen about her enemies. He could drive her mad for what she did to his father. She deserved it, and she would deserve the fire that would eventually consume her. Her greatest sadness would come soon. When the rose and the lion fight there must be casualties.

He saw Arthur Dayne in his net vision, but they had left the safe halls of the Red Keep. He was somewhere new, somewhere that he had never been before. The walls were made of shiny stone that was the colour of curdled milk, and gold tapestries adorned the walls, depicting golden kings in golden armour riding golden steeds.

This was a Lannister castle.

Arthur Dayne stood to the side. He wasn't the main figure with him. Jonothor Darry was stood by his side. Both wore the white cloaks and armour of the Kingsguard. It wasn't difficult to tell who they were guarding.

The silver prince stood at the centre of the hall, surrounded by clamouring lords and knights, eager for his attention and his affection.

Tywin Lannister stood out from all of them. The man was not yet baldimg, and so still had his short, golden hair. Even now, however, his lips were thin and his face gaunt. His eyes were disapproving, as if something about Rhaegar Targaryen was to his distaste. No doubt he disliked these highborns fawning over another man in his halls.

To the side of the crowd was a grotesque boy even younger than he was. He had a small body and a large head and hands. His hair was a lighter gold than his father's, but still this boy was a Lannister. He had seen him once, when he visited Winterfell with the king. This was the Imp. Tyrion Lannister.

There was no sign of Tywin's other children, but Tyrion stood in front of two men that looked the image of Lannisters.

The first of the man was larger than the others, with thicker arms and broader shoulders. That man was more a soldier than he was a schemer. His brother was shorter and leaner, more comely and with rosier cheeks. Both had the golden locks of Lannister. These must have been Lord Tywin's brothers.

Rhaegar eventually came to the three of them. He smiled at a comment from the smaller of the two, and shook the hand of the larger man. Then he knelt before the dwarf boy and spoke words that Bran couldn't hear. They whispered into his ear. Tywin descended quickly then, and whisked Tyrion Lannister away from Rhaegar Targaryen.

That was when a hulking knight walked into the room.

This man was larger than any that Bran had seen before. Even Hodor was smaller. The armour that the new man wore covered his face, but he wore a jerkin of yellow, with three hounds on his chest. He carried a sword that was larger than some of the gathered men. He thought that the man was going to attack the prince, and he saw Dayne move for Dawn, but instead he knelt.

Rhaegar inclined his head gratiously, and Darry passed him his sword. It was a fine blade, with smoky metal and rubies laid into the hilt, that formed the body and head of monstrous dragon, it's mouth opened like the ones in the great hall of the Red Keep.

A few words were spoken by the crown prince, and a few more by the hulking man. Then Rhaegar laid his sword on both the man's shoulders, and the kneeling man rose to cheers and calls of congratulations from the gathered nobles. None approached him, however. Were they scared?

His eyes were drawn to one boy in particular.

He was tall, and he wore his dark hair long. It covered the right side of his face, but was swept over in a strange fashion. He cowered at the side of the room, trying to avoid any stares that came his way. In many ways this boy looked pitiful and broken, but others...

Bran stared into his eyes, and then recoiled. There was hatred and anger there, moreso even than when he looked at the shadow of Aerys Targaryen sat upon his sharpened throne. This boy had hate in his very being, and death walked in line with him. The hair fell away for the briefest of seconds, but he saw what the boy was hiding.

A face that was destroyed by fire years before. The skin had been melted like wax under the light of a candle. It ran and marked and his ear was gone. He had been ravaged by something. Now when he looked into the boy's eyes he heard screams and calls for help, calls for his brother to stop, calls for mercy and forgiveness. They had all been ignored. Gregor Clegane had made a monster of his brother.

The Hound's eyes were the last thing that he saw as the scene around him dissolved, and was instead replaced by an entirely new surrounding.

He was in a cavernous hall, full of dancing lords and ladies. They were dressed in fineries, and drinking from chalices and tankards.

He was stood next to a tall man, dressed in yellow and black. His doublet bore skulls and kisses, and in his hand was a tankard full of a strong smelling ale. Stood next to him was an even larger man, more muscle than body. His eyes were a lightning blue. He didn't recognise him, but something about those eyes was familiar.

He began to weave his way through the dancing couples. He was a broken boy in the real world, but here he could move his feet to the music and dance to his heart's content. He couldn't do that in the cave. There he was a cripple. Here he was a god.

His eyes were drawn to Arthur Dayne, as they had to be. It seemed that something in the weirwoods wanted him to see the life of the legendary Sword of the Morning.

Here Dayne was not alone, however, and he didn't wear the white of the Kingsguard. Instead he was dressed in a jerkin of purple leather with a purple cloak at his back. He still had Dawn. The Dayne's ancestral sword hang at his belt.

The woman that stood by his side was more beautiful than any that he had ever seen. She was tall and slender, with pale skin that made her purple eyes even more haunting than they should have been. Her gown was one of beautiful purple silks, and it fell around her figure gracefully. Sansa would have loved her. Arya would have preferred the brother.

The Daynes stood to the side of the hall, avoiding most of the dancing in the middle. He could spot some faces that he knew. There was jovial Lord Hornwood, drinking from a tankard whilst talking with the Brothers Glover. Old Maege Mormont danced with a man in the colours of House Umber. Even here she looked scary. She had always scared him.

Rhaegar Targaryen danced in the centre of the hall. His partner was a sickly looking woman, still fair, despite her pale skin, dressed in a gown of orange and red. That must be the Princess. She had been a Martell, although he forgot her first name. Rhaegar had left her for Lyanna. That decision had cost him his life.

 _The things we do for love..._

The voice was in his head again, and just as before it caused him to go dizzy. He almost fell to his knees. This time the room didn't change around him, but time seemed to speed up. He saw the Dayne woman dance with a man wearing orange and red, and another who wore a brown cloak clasped with silver arrows.

Then she was in the arms of the fiery haired lord, and she looked up at him with care in her eyes, but Connington couldn't move his own off the crown prince, who still danced with his sickly wife.

The last lord to dance with her had a longer face with dark hair. He wore his hair long, although there were not many men in the room who followed this style.

"Father..."

He looked on as Eddard Stark danced with the Dayne woman. His eyes, that had so often been as soft as fog, were still grey, but here they sparkled like he had never seen them do before.

 _"The things I do for love..."_

"Not again! Leave me be! Leave me alone!"

He felt like a young boy again, as a singsong laugh entered his head. This was not Robb or Jon teasing him for a bad shot on the range, or Theon telling a bawdy joke to Alebelly or Fat Tom. This was cruel laughter. Someone enjoyed his pain, and it hurt him. It rebounded around his head. He didn't understand. Who was this that tormented him here? They shouldn't be able to. This was where he was safe!

"You look concerned, Arthur."

He opened his eyes again, and had to blink a few times. The darkness of the halls of Harrenhal had been replaced with blinding light. He was surrounded by plants, and was following three men and a woman.

He recognised all four of them. It was Rhaegar Targaryen that had just spoken. The prince was handsomer than he had thought when he looked upon him from afar. His hair shone in the light, and his eyes sparkled. He looked strong, but was not large, instead he was lean and toned. He looked quick, both of wit and of blade, and his lips were full and red.

He walked with his arm through that of his female companion. This was the Princess Martell. She was fairer looking when up close too. Here she looked less sickly, although still paler than most sandy Dornish should. Her eyes were large and black, but full of love for her prince.

"Does something trouble you."

"Nothing that would be of any concern to you, my prince."

Rhaegar then turned to the last of the four men, another knight of the Kingsguard.

"Ser Oswell, would you be so kind to accompany my wife around the gardens. I must talk with Ser Arthur alone."

The knight nodded, and the prince leaned down to kiss his wife quickly on the right cheek, before the princess gracefully walked away, the knight of bats at her back.

"You are free to talk now, my friend. What is it that troubles you."

"The Smiling Knight, my prince."

"The Smiling Knight is dead. You killed him yourself."

"He said something to me as we thought. It has troubled me ever since."

Just then the light seemed to darken. A shadow appeared at Arthur Dayne's side. It was blacker than anything, full of hate and a lust for death. It's teeth were as sharp as daggers and it's wicked smile cut through happiness like a knife.

"I have seen your death, white knight."

It spoke with a piercing voice and cruel laughter. Was this the person that haunted his visions.

"Winter will come to claim you as it's own. It does not care for you or your name. They will not know the Sword of the Morning. You will love and lose. When the lone wolf howls, it will be you who answers their call. Winter is Coming."

Rhaegar stayed silent, and as he did the shadow gradually disappeared, turning into nothingness.

"It is not your death that concerns you is it, Arthur?"

The kingsguard shook his head.

"You do not want to know love?"

"I swore an oath-"

"An oath that prevents you from one of the finest things that a man can feel. There is nothing more joyous than looking into someone's eyes and knowing that they will always give their all for you. Some men live their lives trying to fulfill their sense of honour, and then die with none of it. Other men live their lives deplorably, and then have the most noble of deaths. We do not get to choose our lives, Arthur. Do not die not knowing what love is."

"I swore my oath to my king-"

"My father. I know. I was there, Arthur. One day it shall be me sat upon that throne. When it is, my friend, I shall make it so that no man's duty should ever get in the way of their heart. All men should get to know love's embrace. What is her name?"

"The lone wolf howls..."

Dayne looked up to the sky, and before he revealed the identity of his lady love he began to disintegrate. No scene replaced it straight away. There was only blackness. Then a voice.

"Tell them it was me. Protect yourself. Tell them it was me."

Then there was another voice. This one was rougher and less that of a poet. This voice belonged to a warrior.

"You are the crown prince. Do not do this. Not for him. Do not lose your kingdom for him."

"I must."

And then the voices stopped. Blackness began to be replaced by red rock and sandy floor. The sun beat down on his back and baked his skin. There was no water to be seen around him, only rocks, sand and the occasional green plant poking out of a crack in the arid landscape.

There was a tower built into the cliff-face to his right. It was an old structure, crumbling and almost falling down, but still it stood strong amongst the empty mountains.

Three men stood beneath it.

The first of them was sat, his sword laid across his lap. He stared down at the blade. Oswell Whent's helmet was at his feet. He wore his hair cropped short. It was a dark colour, almost black, and his eyes were near as dark. His breathing was deep but steady, and his nostrils flared every time.

Not far behind him was the second knight.

Gerold Hightower was thicker of arm and leg than his companion, and broader of shoulders. The knight was old, though, and his hair was full of grey hairs, although there were still traces of it's original brown. He stood, his sword in it's sheath and his eyes fixed on the floor. When he looked closer he found them to be closed, almost as if the Lord Commander was asleep. They opened swift enough when a voice rang out, however.

"They come."

The last of the three knights of the Kingsguard had been stood to the side. Arthur Dayne wore his hair longer than he had when he had seen him last. He had the shade of a beard grown on his chin. He had been here for a while.

He had Dawn drawn already, and was holding it in one of his hands. He walked over to Hightower's side, clasping the older man's shoulder with his free hand.

"We fight."

Hightower nodded.

"We fight."

Whent joined them, his sword now sheathed and his helmet under his arm.

"We fight as one. For the dragon."

Then they turned to face the horses.

There were seven, ridden by seven men. Each man was distinct, but his eyes were drawn to one in particular.

Eddard Stark did not ride in the centre. He did not command the attention that others would have, but he had a sombre presence. This was his father. These were his father's companions.

The northmen dismounted as one, with none of them yet moving for their weapons. They lined themselves up as the Kingsguard had done. They were seven against three.

He walked up the line of northmen, looking into their eyes and examining their arms, recognising all of them by their house. Some he remembered the name of, whispered in the quiet parts of Winterfell by the servants. He had heard them as he climbed. They talked of Theo Wull and Mark Ryswell, of William Dustin and Martyn Cassell, of Ethan Glover and Howland Reed.

The first on the right was a Cassell. He didn't need to look at the man's arms to tell that. He was the spitting image of his younger brother. Martyn was not a knight as Rodrik had been, but he had held by the Direwolf in the same way.

The next was a Wull. He had the tall and broad physique of the men of the Mountain Clans. He had been scared of them when he was little. Whenever one of them made their way to Winterfell he used to cower behind his mother's skirts. She was dead now. So was this man.

Then there was Mark Ryswell, although he couldn't have said that without knowing the Ryswell arms. They ruled the Rills, and it was not often that they visited Winterfell. This man had long brown hair, with a streak of grey. His face was long and thin, and his mouth was pinched.

Then there was his father, standing behind the other men, as if he didn't want to lead. By his side was the little crannogman. This was Howland Reed. This was the man that had fathered Meera and Jojen. This was his father's oldest friend.

Reed was small, as his children were, and his eyes were green, although they were more piercing than Jojen's. He carried no weapon, but wore the boiled leather armour preferred by men of the North.

Next to Reed was the youngest of the Northman. Ethan Glover was little more than a man grown. He was the youngest of the three Glover brothers.

It was his father that spoke first.

"I looked for you on the Trident."

"We were not there."

It was the Lord Commander who responded. Oswell Whent spoke next.

"Woe to the usurper if we had been."

"When King's Landing fell, Ser Jaime slew your king with a golden sword, and I wondered where you were."

"Far away."

Hightower spoke again.

"Or Aerys would yet sit the Iron Throne, and our false brother would burn in seven hells."

"I came down on Storm's End to lift the siege. The Lords Tyrell and Redwyne dipped their banners, and all their knights bent their knees to pledge us their fealty. I was certain you would be among them."

It was Dayne that spoke next, for the first time.

"Our knees do not bend easily."

"Ser Willem Darry is fled to Dragonstone with your queen and Prince Viserys. I thought you might have sailed with him."

"Ser Willem is a good man and true."

That was Whent.

"But not of the Kingsguard."

The Lord Commander had moved his hand to the pommel of his sword.

"The Kingsguard do not flee."

"Then or now."

Dayne pulled on his helm as he spoke, his eyes trained on Eddard Stark.

"We swore a vow."

Hightower was the only one not wearing a helmet. His eyes were heavy and full of sadness, bust still he stubbornly stood, blocking the way.

"And now it begins."

"No."

There was sadness in his father's voice. There was the sound of steel on steel as his men drew their swords. Wull pulled a mighty axe from his back.

"Now it ends."

Then the northmen charged forward. Cassell and Wull at Whent. His father and Glover at Dayne. Dustin and Ryswell at Hightower. The fighting began.

Dayne took little time in ending the life of young Ethan Glover. The young northerner charged in, but was cut down by one slash of Dawn. Glover fell to the ground, and Ned was left against the Sword of the Morning in one on one.

Elsewhere, Ryswell was on the floor, but not wounded. He had been pushed back by Hightower, who was now withstanding a barrage from young William Dustin. Whent was dodging the heavy cleaves of Wull's great axe, whilst Cassell's corpse lay on the floor, his helmet caved in around his head.

Whent didn't last much longer against the axe, and eventually Wull found his mark, hitting the riverlander in the chest and sending him flying. Oswell Whent had a smile on his face as he died.

He turned back to the rest of the fight, to find that Hightower was now sparring with Ryswell, whilst Dustin had moved on to fighting Dayne. Ryswell didn't last long against the Lord Commander, and eventually got caught out with a thrust through the stomach. That left four against two.

Dayne was fighting with lightning quick speed against his assailants. He dodged Dustin's blows, whilst still slashing at his attackers. Hightower had moved to aid his brother, but was caught in the back by the rushing frame of Theo Wull. The two tussled on the ground for a few moments, until Wull got his hands around Hightower's neck. The Lord Commander struggled for breath, and kicked out at his attacker. Just before taking his last breath, however, he managed to push his sword up through Wull's stomach. Neither got up from the ground.

That left three and one. His father and William Dustin still sparred with Dayne, who was on the defensive more than he was attacking. He drew blood from the Lord of Barrowton with one attack, however, and eventually sent the new Lord of Winterfell sprawling.

His father scrabbled on the ground for a few seconds, dazed and confused. When he looked up he saw Arthur Dayne holding William Dustin, his sword to the man's throat.

"I cannot let you pass Stark. Take your man and head back to Winterfell."

"You know that I cannot, Dayne. I cannot leave here without her."

"Then fight me one on one. If you can beat me then you go on. If I win then I will let your two men return home."

His father pulled himself up from the ground.

"Very well."

The Sword of the Morning released his hold on William Dustin, who went and stood by Reed's side.

"Now it ends, Stark. Whatever happens, we will soon know who gets her."

The two men charged at each other, their swords clashing and the sounds of metal resounding around the Dornish mountains.

Dayne was faster and more graceful on his feet, but Ice was swung with more power behind it's attacks. He had thought the blade too long for combat, but his father wielded it masterfully. As Dawn clashed with the Valyrian blade Dayne was gradually pushed backwards. Eventually one of the heavier swings connected with the Targaryen breastplate.

Dayne was sent flying back, and lay on his back in front of his attacker.

His father stood over his defeated enemy, sadness in his eyes, as it had been before. A scream emanated from the tower above, and his father's eyes were drawn away from his fallen enemy. He rushed towards the steps. As he did, Dayne pulled himself up from the ground and rushed after him, Dawn raised.

"No! Save him!"

He saw Howland's eyes flicker in his direction, and then the crannogman was running. He tackled Dayne before the Kingsguard knight could run his opponent through.

Reed and Dustin held Dayne down as Ned looked at him from the foot of the stairs.

"Don't do it, Stark. Don't take them."

"You swore an oath. You took her after you swore off women. This war is your doing. How many lost lives are on your head?"

"She came with me. Don't take them. Please."

"I will have my sister back, Dayne. She belongs in the North."

Dayne bowed his head then, and his breathing started to deepen.

"The lone wolf howls. Take me then. Take them. Care for them. Hide them. Do not let him get them. Keep them safe"

William Dustin and Howland Reed vanished first, then his father. That left Arthur Dayne kneeling on the ground.

"Keep them safe..."

Then blackness.


	19. The Knight at the Gates

She stood at the Gates of the Moon and looked out over the sweeping expanses of the Vale of Arryn. The land was occassionally grassy, with small hillocks of rocks dotted around the scenery. Three paths split off from the large stone gates. One of them headed north to Ironoaks, where Lady Anya Waynwood was marching from at some point after noon. The second headed south, to the Bloody Gate, where it would meet up with the High Road.

It was the third that the group of highborns looked down.

This was the one that headed into the eastern parts of the Vale. It split several times on it's way to Runestone. The first time was to go to the Redfort, the second time took you to Grey Glen, and the last was a split leading to Gulltown. It was Lord Gerold Grafton that they were expecting today.

Littlefinger had called some of his loyalists to the Gates a few days before, as his bastard was to wed the heir to the Vale. The boy was to join them that day when Lady Anya arrived from Ironoaks with the members of her family that lived there with her.

Lyonel Corbray was coming, but he would not be reaching the Gates of the Moon for a number of days. Heart's Home was on the other side of the Giant's Lance, and the Corbray force would have to negotiate passing Longbow Hall.

The arrival of Gerold Grafton wasn't as big of a deal as that of Anya Waynwood, but Littlefinger had still insisted that most of the castle's highborns were to gather outside of the castle for the arrival of his ally. He didn't want to disparage one of the few lords that was willingly supporting him.

Nestor Royce had roused himself for the occasion, and was dressed in his best fineries. Hyle had found his way out of the Gates single brothel for the occassion, and was in his dented armour, though it seemed that he had cleaned it before coming out. She doubted that he had managed to do it himself. Maybe one of the whores had helped him.

Myranda Royce had joined them too. Her appearance was more unusual because it was not often that she was seen without Mya Stone, but the bastard girl had been deemed not highborn enough for the occasion.

The young Grafton boy had been invited. Lynderly had been left with young Lord Robert. Baelish was anxious for the young lord to spend as much time as he could with the two boys. She didn't understand it. The boys disliked Robert, and Robert disliked them.

Gyles Grafton was a boy of twelve, and was little trained in the art of swordfighting. Littlefinger had got Shadrich teaching the three boys in the way of fighting. Only young Terrance Lynderly would show any actual skill with the sword. Robert was surpisingly good with a bow and arrow, after he had been taught the correct way of holding it.

The young Grafton boy had dark hair, with a streak of grey running through it. His eyes were icy cold, and his lips thin. There was something petulant and spoiled about his appearance. He always acted snooty around the servants, and even sometimes high and mighty towards his lord.

He was excited for his father's arrival, however, and could barely keep himself contained stood behind the Lord Protector of the Vale.

Baelish stood at the front of the welcoming party. She stood on his right, with Byron stood on the left. Byron held the Arryn banner, but he leaned against it more than he stood straight. He had got drunk with Morgarth the night before. The larger knight was still asleep. He was meant to be here instead of her, but he could not be roused.

Baelish had turned to her, as Shadrich was with Robert and the other few hedge knights that he employed had less noble blood in them than one of the asses that Mya Stone used to climb the mountains. Of course, her noble blood was that of Tarth, not of Cox as Baelish actually thought.

With the Lords Declarant seemingly having disintegrated over time, it seemed that the worst had passed for young Robert and the Lord Protector. The Waynwoods, Belmores and Templetons had all been pacified, which left only Lords Royce, Hunter and Redfort. The Hunters were too far apart from their allies, and were sandwiched between the Corbrays and the Waynwoods. If Baelish wanted to end the Hunter threat then he could do so fairly easily.

The Royces would pose the biggest threat, with the Redforts at their back. Yohn Royce was no fool, and was a renowned fighter and leader. Littlefinge knew that. Was he hoping that by defeating the Hunters he could force Lord Royce to bend the knee?

Her eyes met the last of the gathered nobles that were here to welcome the incoming Lord Grafton.

The Knight of Ninestars had arrived a few days before, under the express wish of Littlefinger. The two had spent most of the last day locked in the Lord Protector's solar. She had stood guard for a few hours, but had been unable to hear what was being discussed inside.

The man was older than the knights under Nestor's command, but younger than most of the Vale lords. He was of a similar age with Lyonel Corbray. He could be no older than forty years. His beard was pointed and black, with no grey hairs, and his blue eyes still had the glimmer of youth.

Templeton had brought one hundred men with him to the Gates, to act as the guards for the wedding, with Lord Nestor commanding one hundred of his own.

At this moment, the man was stood to the side, his back rested against the stone walls of the Gates. Hyle was the closest to him, but the knight paid Templeton little attention. Hyle didn't understand that Littlefinger was close to pacifying the Vale. Soon they would be able to stay here until the end of the war. They were out of her clutches.

"There, on the horizon. Lord Grafton and his party approach. Raise the flag, Byron. Open the gates."

Littlefinger pointed to a number of horses racing down the road that ran eastwards. Young Gyles had to visibly restrain himself from running out, and Littlefinger put his arm around the boy's shoulders, a smile appearing on the Lord Protector's face.

"Soon."

The horses did not take long to arrive at the Gates. Some of the gathered nobles repositioned themselves as they heard of the approach, but Hyle and Templeton remained slouched against the stone walls.

It wasn't hard for her to make out which of the riders was Gerold Grafton. The man wore armour of red and black, with a helmet shaped like the famous Grafton tower, with a plume of orange at the top. He rode a black courser, which was the finest of the horses gathered, and rode at the head of a sizeable party.

He dismounted his horse and strode over to the Lord Protector. The man was taller than she had expected. He had little in the way of muscle, however. A blonde haired youth dismounted after him and followed his lord. When Grafton removed his helmet in front of Littlefinger, it was the boy that he passed it to.

Gerold stood before Baelish for a few seconds before kneeling.

"You need not kneel for me, Lord Grafton. I am not your lord. I am just his chief advisor. If Lord Robert were here then he would expect it. I do not."

Grafton rose from his kneeling position with swiftness.

"Then let me embrace an old friend instead. Come here, Petyr!"

Grafton wrapped his arms around Littlefinger. The man's arms weren't thick or broad, but still the small Lord Protector seemed to be enveloped in the mass of the Lord of Gulltown. It was some time before Grafton eventually let go of Baelish, and when he did the smile had vanished from Littlefinger's face.

"Gyles!"

Lord Grafton reached down for his son, lifting him high into the air when the boy rushed into his father's arms. The two of them laughed as the father swung his son in the air.

"Has he been good, Petyr?"

"He is the model child, my friend. Him and Lord Robert get on well."

That was a lie. Why would Littlefinger lie to Lord Grafton over such a trivial issue? Lord Grafton would find out soon enough that his son and Robert Arryn cared little for each other. Whether he would be told by his son or witness it first hand, he would surely find out.

"You should introduce me to your companions. I know Nestor and Myranda already."

Gerold's eyes grew colder when they passed over the two Royces of the Gates of the Moon. What reason did Gerold have to feel any animosity towards Nestor and Myranda? Could this be a weakness in Littlefinger's valued alliance?

"Very well. These are my two knights. Ser Byron and Ser Brandon Cox."

"A Cox, eh? Are you Quincy's whelp? That man is a friend to the Graftons of Gulltown. He knew my father once. They had fought together on the Stepstones."

She was worried that the man was going to come over and hug her as he had with Littlefinger, but thankfully she was spared that.

"We should talk later over a cup of wine. It has been a while since I have met a Cox."

She remained silent, and eventually Grafton's eyes moved onto the various other nobles gathered. First Littlefinger introduced Hyle and then Symond. She was surprised that Templeton and Grafton needed introduction. Had they not both been at Lyonel Corbray's wedding?

"What of your friends? There are some that I do not recognise."

That comment from Littlefinger removed Grafton's smile as quickly as he made it. Who was here with him that he so wanted to hide from the Lord Protector.

That question was answered soon enough.

"Lord Littlefinger."

A thin man stepped forward. He had long, brown hair and piercing eyes. There was some arrogance in the way that he looked at Littlefinger.

"Ser Lyn. I did not expect you for the wedding. I heard that you were with the Bronze Yohn at Runestone."

"I heard that there was a feast. I like wine and food. I also liked the look of your daughter, Littlefinger. I would quite like to see her again before the bedding ceremony."

A thin smile passed over the knight's face, whilst Littlefinger's eyes were harder than she had ever seen them. He clearly cared that such a lewd joke was made at the expense of his own blood. Had Lyn crossed a line?

"Very well. I will have a room set up for you. Be assured that you will sit with me and Lords Templeton and Grafton at tonight's feast."

Lyn Corbray didn't even respond to that, instead choosing to inspect his fingernails, before stepping to the side.

The next man to step forward was Dornish. He had olive skin and dark eyes, with his hair grey and curly, worn short round his head. He had a wide smile on his face as he stepped before the Lord Protector. Grafton announced him as being Morollo, one of the richest merchants of Gulltown. Apparently he had requested to join the party, and Grafton had owed the man a favour. Morollo brought with him a number of servants and four guards that he claimed to be Unsullied.

"I am sorry for the last three, my lord. They insisted on coming with me. I did not choose them."

The last three riders then dismounted from their horses. They all wore hooded cloaks that masked their faces from sight, and when they walked they did it in a synchronised line. There was a sense of purpose about how they walked, as if there was something more important that they needed to be doing. What could be more important to these men than meeting Baelish? And who could be worse for Littlefinger than Lyn Corbray?

The three of them lowered their hoods at the same time.

The one on the right was a dour faced young man, with a hooked nose and greasy, black hair. His cloak was grey and black and his face was no less sinister than his choice of colours.

The one on the left was an even younger man, with a thinner face and red hair. This one had simples where his lips ended, and freckles upon his cheeks. He was more handsome than his companion, and had more of an allure about him. She disliked him from her first look. His red hair reminded her of Ronnet Connington, the red headed griffin that she has once been promised to.

He had brought her a rose of red, but it had been all that he would ever give her. The man wa nothing more than a craven, who masked at fierceness to cover up for the fact that he was nothing more than a landed knight. The Conningtons were an old house, but not as old as the Tarths.

It was not these two men that drew the eye, however, when compared to the man that walked in the middle.

He was a head taller than his two companions, and broader of shoulders too. He was bald on the top of his head, but had a carefully cut beard of bristly, brown hair. His eyes were fierce and were the colour of bronze.

"Lord Baelish, may I present you the knights Andar Royce, Mychel Redfort, and Andrew Tollett."

There was a silence as Grafton announced the three knights. Baelish was clearly shocked. Was it possible that something had caught Littlefinger out? Had Royce come to submit his house to the rightful governance of Baelish?

It was Nestor Royce that first broke the silence.

"Cousin, I did not expect to see you here. What could possibly have brought you so far from Runestone? Do you bring news of your father?"

"My father is in good health, cousin. The only thing that makes him feel ill is the knowledge that his own blood has betrayed him. As for why I am here... Well, the wedding of the heir to the Vale is a big event indeed, even it is to the baseborn daughter of a small lord. It would be wrong for Runestone to have no representative for such an occasion, seen as we are the largest house sworn to young Robert."

Andar talked with an easy confidence, but somehow didn't come across as arrogant in the same way that Lyn had. There was something quietly clever about the way he spoke, as if every word had been weighed up well in advance. It was almost as if the heir to Runestone was reading from a script.

"I can assure you, Ser Andar, you and your companions are most welcome-"

"Spare me the pleasantries, Lord Baelish. We both know that you are distressed by my presence. What a gift your dog has brought you. No doubt Lord Grafton will not be allowed to enjoy your presence tonight. Not in the same way as he would have, anyway."

A thunder fell upon Grafton's face.

"That is a wild accusation."

"And it is one that I make. The Graftons have a history of going to their knees for more powerful lords, do they not? It is shocking to see, however, that they have sunk this low. Would the comfort of House Royce not be more preferable to whatever Littlefinger holds within his breeches?"

"You come to this castle and make such statements? I knew I should have never consented to bring you."

She thought for a second that Grafton and Royce were going to come to blows, but Baelish stepped between them.

"Now, now, my friends. The wedding of my daughter is supposed to be a happy one that I can share with my friends. Let us not start that with a fray. Sers, I will have rooms made up for you in Lord Nestor's tower. I hope these will suit."

Andar made his way past Littlefinger at that, not even responding to the Lord Protector's offer of hospitality. His other two companions followed suit. She saw that the eyes of Lyn Corbray and Lothor Brune were both trained on Mychel Redfort, the young lord with the red hair. She wondered how like Ronnet Connington. Was he trustowrthy? Had he ever scorned his betrothed? The boy was handsome, but he was also a man, and men had a tendency to whore and drink.

Not all men. That was what she had to remind herself. Her father was not like that, nor had old Ser Goodwin, who had taught her the ways of the sword. Then there was Jaime.

Jaime was strange. He was a man that had done bad things. He had broken his oath, but only to save the population of King's Landing. He was a hero, but they called him a villain, and over time he had decided to make that title his own. He would never be remembered for greatness, only for the greatest deed that he could ever have hoped to do, and for that they hated him.

He had confessed some of his crimes to her after they arrived. She had told him that he could trust her, as he could, and he had let go.

He had told her again of how he had killed Aerys Targaryen and his Pyromancer Hand. He had told her how he had stood by and watched the deaths of Brandon and Rickard Stark, how he had not intervened when Qarlton Chelsted was burned, how he had ordered the deaths of three of Eddard Stark's men in the streets of the capital.

He was a monster, that was what he thought, but she saw him as a hero. He had saved her from he clutches of the Brave Companions, he had spared Edmure Tully at the Siege of Riverrun, he had saved his brother from being falsely executed.

She had told him that, but it only caused him more grief. Freeing his brother had caused the death of his father. He blamed himself for the untimely death of Lord Tywin, whether correctly or not. She had been unsure how to console him at that. She didn't think that he was to blame. Fault there lay with the Imp or Tywin himself. It had been he that had driven Tyrion Lannister to such lengths.

Of course, she could not say as such to Jaime in the state that he was in.

He hadn't been seen as highborn enough to be invited to the welcoming of Lord Grafton. He was likely away somewhere with Podrick, drinking away his sorrows, or walking the battlements with the young squire.

"Ser Brandon, come and guard my chambers as I talk with Lord Grafton. Then you may rest before the feast. I think you and Ser Shadrich will serve guard duty then."

She nodded at the Lord Protector's command, and followed in his footsteps as he left the group, with Grafton at his heels. Littlefinger could move surprisingly quickly, considering that he was such a short man.

"Is the girl pregnant?"

That was what Littlefinger asked as they walked. It was a hushed whisper, as if he did not desire anyone else to overhear the question. Who was the girl that he was talking about? Why did he care if she was pregnant?

"She is. I do not see why it was so important, however."

"It is of the utmost importance. You must take the girl into your keep and hide her from prying eyes. Do not trust your maesters or your knights. Have one of your sons do it. It cannot be known that she is pregnant."

"I shall write to Gaylan the moment that I get to my chambers, Petyr. Why does it need to be so secretive?"

"We need people to buy the deception. If it becomes common knowledge that the heir has a second bastard on the way then no-one will believe that the babe is Alayne's."

"I see..."

Grafton said that in a way that indicated that he didn't really see anything, and that he was only saying as such to protect Baelish's own opinion of his intelligence. She had no idea what the Lord Protector was talking about. Why did he need a babe to pretend to be Alayne's? What did Grafton have to do with it?

"Does the boy serve you well?"

Grafton was caught slightly off guard by the quick change in topic.

"The boy? You mean the squire? He does well. He has been taught well in arms, but struggles with smaller tasks. His hands shake sometimes, as if he has gone through some kind of trauma. Who is he, Petyr?"

"Some negative reaction is to be expected."

Baelish said that as if he wasn't talking to Grafton at all. It was more like he was musing something to himself, as if something was distracting him from the there and now.

That was when they reached the Lord Protector's chambers, and she was left outside to stand guard. She couldn't hear inside the room, and so she did not know what the two lords went on to discuss. What she had heard had caused her enough questions, however.

Instead she thought back to the encounter at the gate. She had disliked the look of both Tollett and Redfort, but it was Ser Andar that specifically caught her attention. The two of them had met before, but it had been a long time ago.

They had visited Tarth when she had been little more than twelve. There had been Lord Yohn, a physically imposing man with a booming laugh. He had been greying even then. He was quite the opposite of her father, but the two greeted each other as if they were the oldest of friends.

Then there had been Yohn's three sons. She couldn't remember the name of the youngest. He had been a year older than she, but stood smaller than her. He had ignored her for most of the trip, preferring to stay in the company of his eldest brother.

Andar had been in his early twenties then, and had shown very little interest in the awkward, ugly child that they already called Brienne the Beauty. She had hated them for that, but Ser Goodwin had told her to use it as an armour and defend against their insults as she did their weapons.

The middle son, however, had been kind to her. He had been four years older than she, but had danced with her and talked with her. He had told her jokes and smiled when she laughed. He hadn't been as handsome as Jaime, but he had still been comely in a chiselled way. His face had been rough with stubble even then. She had remembered it tickling her chin as she had shared her first kiss with him.

She had cried when Lord Royce took him away with him. They had laughed at her for it, but Robar had just smiled, and told her that they would talk again, when next they met. She had loved him, and he had left, just like all the others. Had he wanted to leave? Had he been using her for her name and birthright? She liked to think that the answer was no.

He had treated her well when she had arrived at Renly's camp. It had been he that had brought her before the king. She had loved them both once, and they had died together. They had died thanks to Stannis Baratheon, the man that had killed his own brother with foul blood magic and spells. His red witch had mocked Renly, and then he had died. He knew it had been him.

Had Stannis killed his nephew too? Had he been responsible for Balon Greyjoy falling from the rope bridge? Were these his schemes that had brought three of the five kings to their knees. She would never bend her knee before him.

"You may go rest, Ser Brandon. I will need you and Ser Shadrich ready for the feast. I will be supping with Lords Grafton and Royce, as well as with Sers Templeton and Corbray. Donnel Waynwood will be joining us, I hope, should he arrive from the Bloody Gate soon."

She nodded to Littlefinger, and left his door, bound for her own, smaller quarters. She shared a corridor with Shadrich, Byron and Morgarth, whilst Podrick and Jaime slept in rooms below them. She wasn't sure where Hyle was roomed, but he spent most of his sleeping time in the local bars and brothels.

Morgarth and Byron were sleeping when she got there, and Shadrich was still with the little lord of the Eyrie. She had the corridor to herself.

When she was in the quiet of her own room, she rescued the bundle that she had hidden underneath her bed. She unwrapped it carefully, and inside found the sword that she had been given by Jaime, and that now she was forced into keeping hidden. She hid this as she had her feelings for Renly, her feelings for Robar, her feelings for...

She wrapped the sword back up quickly then, but left the package on the bed.

She paced for what seemed like hours. What had she almost thought? She couldn't have feelings for him, not like that, not after everything that he had done. She hated to see him in the way that he was, but there was nothing that she could do to save him, he was lost to her at the moment. He was locked in his own torments, and she couldn't save him from them.

It wasn't long before the light in the room began to fade. That was when she realised that she was late, and that the feast would already be started. Littlefinger would have only the Mad Mouse guarding him. She needed to get to him. Sh went to the door, but before she left through it she turned. Something about Oathkeeper drew her.

She pulled it from it's bundle, and swapped it with the sword that Littlefinger had given her upon her arrival at the Gates. It felt more natural to have the blade at her side.

The approach to the feast was a cold one, and the night was dark. She passed two figures that were together in the dark, but didn't take any notice of who the couple were. She was too hurried for that.

The feast was already in full sway, and many of the feasters had clearly had too much in the way of drink.

Robert Arryn's seat at the high bench was empty. It was likely that the little lord had decided to retire to bed early. Baelish sat in his usual place to the right of the Arryn seat. Grafton was sat next to him, and then Templeton to his right. Nestor Royce was seated on the left of Robert's seat, with Donnel Waynwood to his left, and an empty seat to the left of him. That was where Corbray should have been sat. What could possibly have prevented Ser Lyn from attending the feast that he had ridden across half of the Vale for?

"Ser Brandon!"

It was Grafton that called out to her. He was clearly more drunk than any of the gathered nobles. Litlefinger rarely drunk, but she was used to Nestor Royce getting quite bawdy. The Lord of the Gates of the Moon, however, appeared to be on his best behaviour. The cup of wine in front of him had barely been touched.

"I feared that you would not be joining us. Come, friend, let us share a drink and swap stories about your grandfather! I have a particularly bawdy story about him, a miller's girl and a donkey!"

"I am afraid that story will have to wait, Lord Grafton."

She had not heard anyone approach her from behind, but suddenly a man was there. She didn't have to turn to recognise the harsh voice. She had heard it enough before when they had briefly met at the gates.

Andar Royce.

"This castle has now been taken under the control of House Royce of Runestone. In the name of the Bronze King we declare Lords Petyr Baelish, Gerold Grafton, and Lyonel Corbray, amongst others, as enemies of the realm. I also brought you a gift, Littlefinger, as a sign of just how serious me and my father are."

Andar clicked his fingers, and then there was the sound of many heavy objects falling. At first she wasn't sure what had happened, but then she heard a woman scream, and her eyes were drawn to the side of the room.

Bodies were hanging from the balconies that watched over the feast hall. Behind each one stood one of the Dornish merchant's Unsullied. Most of the bodies were guardsmen that bore the crest of Grafton upon their chest. Some had blood soaked uniforms, others had clearly been choked. Some of them she recognised.

Ser Byron and Morgarth hanged together, side by side as they had been in life. Byron had clearly put up something of a fight, but Morgarth's throat had been slit, as if he had died sleeping.

She felt bad for the two men. Neither had been particularly good knights, and neither had much in the way of a sense of honour, but both had been young, and neither had deserved to die in this way.

Her eyes were eventually drawn away from the swinging figures of her fellow sellswords to another of the dead men.

The long brown hair that stood out so before was now limp. The piercing eyes had gone cold. The mocking smile had vanished, and the thin body swung between two of the pillars near the end of the corridor.

"Lyn Corbray is dead! He was a pawn of Lord Littlefinger, and he worked against the true King of the Vale. That is Yohn Royce. That is my father. Is it not him that wears the bronze armour of the old First Men? Is it not he who will soon carry the Andal sword into battle? Why should we bend the knee to a little lord who is under the thumb of an upjumped sellsword's whelp?"

"The time is now, friends. My brothers, my sisters, let us no longer be governed by the lion of Lannister who took Jon Arryn from us, nor by the treacherous lord who murdered Jon's widow. The Royces remember the Vale of old. We remember, and then we fight!"

There were calls of support from across the room, and a sudden shift of power occured.

It started when Grafton tried to rise from his seat, his mouth opening as he prepared to offer a defense of Baelish. Instead he found Templeton's knife at his throat. Waynwood and Royce had risen too, but both had their swords trained on Shadrich, who stood near to the dead body of Lyn Corbray.

"Think before you act, my friends. Most of the men in this castle have already sworn oaths to my father. Lord Robert is currently being held by Andrew Tollett and Marwyn Belmore. Littlefinger's bastard daughter is being secured by Mychel Redfort as we speak. Does anyone think that they are prepared to stand against me and the forlorn lady of Runestone."

With that comment he drew his sword, and revealed it to be Lady Forlorn, which had been wielded by Lyn Corbray until very recently. Any man who had been prepared to stand against the man was convinced against it by that gesture. The blade of that particular sword was feared across almost all the Vale.

She didn't know what compelled her to step forward, but that was what she did. Andar Royce looked at her with eyes as hard as stone.

"Very well. Dance with me then."

Royce set himself up with a defensive stance. Lady Forlorn's blade crossed his face down the middle, and his eyes closed as he focused.

She charged at him first, but her enemy dodged back with more speed than she had expected from such a large man. Her next swing was met with Lady Forlorn, with dexterity. When she looked at Andar's face she was shocked to see that he fought with his eyes closed.

"I have seen this before. That sword is not new to me, but it has been a long time. It has changed since then. You have destroyed it and reforged it anew. You are a Lannister dog."

She gritted her teeth and swung again. What was the man talking about? How did he know the sword? How could he know it? What did he mean?

Her swing was deflected down, and she fell with it. She had extended herself too far. She was on her knees before him. She could feel the tip of Lady Forlorn dancing around her neck, as Andar Royce looked down at her.

The tip of the sword raised away from her, and she saw Andar preparing to bring Lady Forlorn down on her. This would be the end. She had to do something. It was a desperate move, but she moved Oathkeeper up to block what would surely be a fatal attack. she closed her eyes.

CRACK!

The sound resounded around the great hall, as people looked on in silence. She fell backwards, but she was alive. When she opened her eyes she found that she was no longer looking at a Valyrian blade. Instead all that she held was the ornate head shaped into a roaring lion.

Oathkeeper had been broken.

"Reforging Valyrian steel blades weakens them. They will still be stronger than your average weapon, but a blade like Lady Forlorn could cut through yours easily enough. Let us see who is pretending to be Brandon Cox, shall we?"

He used Lady Forlorn to prise her helmet off her head. It clattered to the ground, falling behind her, as she lay underneath his sword awaiting the inevitable.

"Brienne Tarth."

He recognised her? When she looked up at him she could see that some sadness had entered her enemy's eyes now.

"I did not expect to see you in the Vale. You should return home."

Andar moved away from her.

"You aren't going to kill me."

"For the love that my brother had for you I will spare you. He died for your life. I will not let that be in vain. Leave the Vale now and alone, my lady. I shall not be so merciful a second time."

Two of the Royce men gathered around the side of the room grabbed her and pulled her out of the room. Andar had turned her back to her as she called out. She couldn't leave. She couldn't leave alone. Not without Jaime. Not without Podrick. Not without Hyle.

But she did.

They strapped her to a horse and sent it out along the west road, the one that would take her to the Bloody Gate. From there they would send her back to the Riverlands. That was if she could bypass the heavy snow along the High Road. That didn't concern her now, however.

Brandon Cox was dead, and she was alone.


	20. Patrek II

The tunnels under the great castle of Riverrun were dark and damp, with water leaking down from the Tumblestone and the Red Fork, both of which ran above them. The rivers flowed fast, and the roaring noise of the broiling waters covered the sound of the group of men and their traipsing through the mud.

The old man led them.

Utherydes Wayn had served as the steward of Riverrun for near forty years under Hoster Tully, and had grown up in the castle with the Tully lord. No-one knew the secret passages and chambers of Riverrun as well as this man.

He had fled the castle not long before the Blackfish had set up for the siege. Tully had called Wayn a traitor, but Utherydes had still called the trout of Tully as his overlord. He had fled to Stone Hedge first, and had arrived at Raventree with Jonos Bracken. Utherydes was not the last of his house, but his nephew's lands were on the opposite side of the Trident. They were under the thumb of House Frey.

Behind the steward walked the large figure of Theomar Smallwood. He was a man of large proportions, with thick arms, broad shoulders and a mighty beard of read hair. He had a boisterous laugh and a menacing voice when angered. He had more military experience than most of those that had gathered at Raventree. He had fought through Robert's Rebellion, killing Lords Mallery and Gargalen upon the shores of the Trident. He had fought on Old Wyk with Ser Barristan Selmy. He had fought for the wolf in the War of the Five Kings. He was a warrior.

But here he had to be quiet. He had to be sly and swift. This was not the kind of attack that he was used to.

Behind Theomar came Gerion Chambers, another of the river lords that came to the Tully cause when Tytos had asked. The Chambers ruled lands to the north west of Riverrun. They were loyal to their overlords. They were friends to all houses of the Riverlands, but their lord was not a friendly man.

Gerion was small of stature, with greasy, black hair. He had a scar down the right hand side of his face, and thin, beady eyes. He was known less for his talent with a sword than for his talent with the shadow and dagger. He was a trickster and a player. He was, in many ways, the direct opposite of Lord Smallwood.

Chambers had worked with Utherydes and Tytos to perfect the plan. That was why he was here, unusually close to the action, so that he could oversee the entire operation.

He came next, traipsing through the mud and the puddles that formed on the ground. He had come here to represent the Mallister cause in the operation. Each of the major houses involved in the effort to take back Riverrun had sent at least one man, although there were two Freys.

One of them walked behind him. Olyvar had put some weight on himself, and colour had started to return to his skin. He was becoming more healthy the further away from his father he got. He was helped by the presence of Perwyn Frey.

Perwyn was bolder than Olyvar had been. He had left the court of his father by choice after the events of the Red Wedding. Although Lord Walder had sent men after him, they hadn't been enough to capture the Frey knight, who had killed two of them as he made his escape. He had been in Raventree Hall ever since, and had been present through the Siege of Raventree. He had been kept away from Jaime Lannister when he had arrived at the castle.

It had been Perwyn that had been given command of the small Blackwood and Bracken force that was sent to Pennytree to deal with the Lannister army. They had freed the rivermen that had travelled with the Kingslayer, but had found no trace of the man himself. His oldest squire, a Peckledon boy, had told them that a woman had visited him one night, and the next day Ser Jaime had been disappeared without a trace. The boy was now rotting in a Raventree cell, as were other nobles of the West.

Perwyn was followed by Marq Piper, the heir of Pinkmaiden.

Before the war, Marq had a mighty head of flowing, blonde hair, but now it had been shorn short. It had been a way for Edwyn Frey to mock the young knight without putting him at any risk. Before, he had been carefree and daring, a favourite of the wenches of Riverrun, but now he was consumed with hatred and a lust for revenge. He was darker, you could see it in his eyes. He had been the first to volunteer for this mission. There was a reason for that.

He hated Freys.

He had watched them murder his cousins.

He had watched them torment good men in their dirty, dark cells.

Today he hoped for revenge.

The last of their number trudged at the back, carrying the second of their two torches. The flames flickered and lit up their shadows, if anything making the tunnel seem eerier.

Robert Paege was a knight, and was another going against the will of his family. His father had sided with the Freys after the fall of Riverrun. There had been some of them arrive at Seagard when he was there. Robert had not been among them.

He had been part of the garrison that Brynden Tully had held at Riverrun, but had been sent away by the Blackfish to attempt to secure support for his cause from the riverlords.

Like Perwyn he had found his way to Raventree Hall eventually, just in time to sit out the siege under the Blackwood banners. The Paeges had once been loyal to the Blackwoods, and had served as their vassals for years, but had found themselves closely associated with the Freys more recently.

Robert was different from the other Paeges, however.

He had spent most of his time away from their ancestral castle, serving as a squire to Ser Brynden Tully after he went to the Vale. He had then gone on to fight in the Disputed Lands, where he had learned about war. He had even spent time in Lys, where he served as commander of the guards to a rich nobleman.

"This is where you must go up. You know the route from here. The plan must be carried out to full effect. we must reclaim Riverrun. For the trout we must swim."

Theomar Smallwood inclined his head to the steward as the man handed him the first of their two torches. Before him was a series of hand and footholds set in the muddied stone.

"For the trout we must swim. When we next speak Edmure Tully shall be restored to his rightful place."

Utherydes inclined his own head at that, and then dissappeared into the shadows. He wasn't sure where the steward would be going from here. Far from any action and bloodshed, he suspected. The man was brave in his own way, but spilling blood in his halls was not something that he would stand by and condone.

"We must climb. Quickly. We do not have much time."

Smallwood stayed at the bottom and held the torch so that the rest of them could climb. First went Chambers, then Olyvar Frey, then himself. Behind him would come Perwyn, Marq and Robert, and Theomar would come last of them all.

As he climbed he thought, and as he thought he felt.

He had neard nothing of what had happened to his father after he had fled Seagard. Had Black Walder made his father suffer for the death of Walton Frey? He surely couldn't suspect any Mallister culpability, but that man was viscious. He needed little excuse to inflict pain on an innocent.

Walton Frey had not helped in the death at the Red Wedding. He hadn't been in attendance. The only thing that had connected the man to the cruel act was his name, and yet he had been made to die for it, whilst Edwyn, Lothar and Hosteen Frey, all of whom had aided in the act, still walked free. That was more of a cruel injustice than what had happened to Walton.

That was what he had to tell himself, at least.

Walton had been one of the kinder Freys. He had not deserved such a death. It was in the name of the Tullys, however, and for the trout they must all swim.

He would not revel in whatever blood he would spill today, not as others here would. Piper relished the prospect of dead Freys, and Chambers would grow hard at the sight of one of his plans paying off. He, however, had seen enough death. He would do what he had to do and no more than that.

The climb was not a long one, and this was all that he could think before the light hit him in the face. Chambers had managed to force open the trapdoor above them, and had pulled himself out. It was his hand that was offered when he also reached the top.

The corridor that they now found themselves in was a side off a side. They were far from any prying eyes, and the steward had insisted that this would be the safest place they could possibly enter the castle. He trusted the steward's knowledge of the twisting corrdiors and back passages of the ancient castle.

Riverrun, like Seagard, had been redecorated since the arrival of it's Frey occupiers. Before the walls had been covered in Tully banners and tapestries depicting Tully victories, but now they had been replaced by Emmon Frey's gaudy sigil. He took one of the towers of Frey and placed a lion above it. Around it ran a red band, representing the Red Fork river that they had just passed under.

His companions gradually pulled themselves out from beneath the ground, each of them taking a few seconds to find their feet again, once they were on solid ground. Theomar Smallwood cursed as he came through, and Perwyn had to help Chambers haul him up. It took the big lord longer than they others to recompose himself, but once he had they all turned to him.

"Right. Right. You all know what we have to do from here. We split up. Find your targets and we will meet again in the great hall. We have little time to waste. Let's get moving."

Smallwood made to move, but when no-one followed he turned.

"Oh, right. For the trout we must swim."

"For the trout we must swim."

They all intoned it back to him, some more enthusiastically than others. Some were here for a Tully restoration, he sensed, whilst others were here for the joy of the hunt. As he thought this he looked at Gerion Chambers, who had a wicked smile upon his thin lips.

"Now we go. Good luck, my friends."

Piper and Paege followed the hulking frame of Smallwood, leaving him alone with Chambers and the two Freys. They were to fulfill their own part of the quest.

"Come, we must be a swift and silent as a dagger in the dark. Quickly."

Chambers led them in the opposite direction to Smallwood, down an even smaller corrdior that branched off to the right, and then up a set of stairs, before turning left and then left again. It wasn't long before he had lost himself amongst the corridors, and had grown tired of the site of Emmon Frey's solitary tower.

They had been travelling in silence up to that point, with the only sound any of them making being Chambers hushed whispers if he forgot the steward's instructions. He was beginning to get worried that the lord had got them all lost, when suddenly they ended up at their destination.

"Wait out here. Let me do my job. Let me deal justice."

Chambers slipped through a door that had been left slightly ajar by one of the guards. This was the part of the plan that he disliked. He had been assured that these were Frey and Lannister men, but there was no guarantee. He did not like killing innocents as a way of getting back at traitors.

He had heard cruel rumours about the acts that Lord Chambers got up to, usually on the breaths of drunken men from further south, or in the sultry voices of whores from Seagard brothels. They spoke of a man who loved pain so much that he sought to inflict it on others for pleasure. They spoke of whores who vanished, men-at-arms who disappeared, and blood soaked clothes found in nearby rivers. He had hated this man from before he had even met him.

Lords were supposed to protect their peoples and protect their lands, but all this man had done was put his people at risk for his own insatiable and perverse pleasures. He was a monster, and not fit to be judged in the eyes of the Seven. Should he die then he would most certainly be sent to one of the seven hells.

He doubted that whatever Chambers was doing in there that he considered it justice.

The lord rejoined them soon enough, still hiding his blood stained knife as he stepped back through the door.

"Your disguises are ready gentlemen."

Perwyn and Olyvar entered without any word. They didn't even give the smiling lord a first glance. He couldn't let this pass, however.

"I hope you took some joy in the deaths of those men that you killed."

He tried to walk past him, but the small man had surprisingly fast reflexes, and quickly grabbed him by the wrist. His grip was tighter than he would have expected.

"Do not talk to me about joy in death, boy. The Mallisters kept themselves away from the war. Those of us closer to the West have suffered more than you can ever truly know."

Then he let go.

What could the man have meant by that? No Chambers man had led troops in the field. Sure, some men had been sent to represent the lord, but he himself had not left his castle. He had stayed comfy and secure behind his walls. He had no family. No wife and no sons. What could he possibly have lost?

He shrugged away the remaining attention that Chambers gave him, and instead entered the room.

Perwyn had already stripped the three dead men of their clothes, and was helping Olyvar into his armour. The younger Frey hadn't fully recovered yet, and besides, the armour wasn't easy to get on properly. Usually he would have had his squire with him, but Olyvar was busy and the other boy had been left in Segard. It took more time than they had, but eventually he was ready.

Chambers had already vanished when they left the room, clad from head to toe in Frey armour, and looking the part of Frey soldiers perfectly. Perwyn led them, as he was the oldest of the three, and guided them along two corridors, before dropping them into a shaded part of the large, triangular, Riverrun courtyard. Most of the buildings were built along the side of the walls, and the sound of toil reverberated around them. The blacksmith beat at his anvil, the fishmonger tried despearately to sell his wares, but to little avail, and the Master of the Horse trotted mare after mare around his enclosed paddock. This was life under a Frey. This would soon be ruined.

They stuck to the shadows as they approached the large keep that formed the innermost defensive structure of the grand castle. The garrison that Emmon Frey had kept was large, but most had been the Blackfish's men before, and now held little loyalty to their new lord. The Freys would never be loved here, no matter what they did. These people would always remember kind Hoster, brave Brynden, sweet Cat, loyal Edmure. The names of House Tully would live on in song.

But not here. Not today. There would be no songs sung about what they were about to do.

The feast was in full sway as they stepped through the grand doors, and straight into the great hall of the Riverrun keep. There were calls for ale and pies, there was music echoing around the high hall, as men and women danced to it.

The nobility all sat around the high table, a gathered assortment of lords, knights and squires, all from powerful families, either from the Riverlands, the Crownlands or the Westerlands.

His eyes were first drawn to the woman that sat at one end of the table.

Genna Lannister was not the woman that she had once been. She was large around the waist and fatter of face, but her eyes were as sharp as ever, and her hair as golden. She was the lion that protected the Frey lord, she was his master, and she was his shield. She was old and fat now, and her lion brothers were all dead. Soon she would find herself in a prison cell in the bowels of Riverrun.

It was the story of Emmon Frey's life that his wife drew the eye before he did, but now he moved on to study the new lord of Riverrun.

The lord was old, in his seventies at least, and was small and wiry. He did not touch the drink that had been placed in front of him, and only a small portion of food sat before him, growing cold as he observed the mass of people around him. There was no spark left in this one's eyes, if there ever had been in the first place.

There were other figures of note at the table besides the Lannister and the Frey.

Tytos Blackwood sat on Emmon Frey's right side, his back to the main door. His face may be blocked, but the lord of Raventree Hall's jet black hair was indistinguishable. He was the most powerful lord present, and so had been sat beside the host.

Opposite Tytos was another Frey. This one was known as Lyonel, the second son of Emmon. He was in his mid thirties, with a weaselly chin and a pallid complexion. He was more of Frey than a Lannister, and had inherited his father's nervous appearance.

Seated next to Lyonel was a short man with long, dark hair and a pinched nose. That was Edwyn Frey, heir to the Twins. He was the eldest son of Ryman Frey, and had been the nephew of Ser Walton. His uncle's death did not seem to weigh on the mind of the Frey, who was deep in conversation with Gerion Chambers, who sat on Edwyn's left.

"Yes, my uncle died whilst in Seagard, keeping the peace. No, not Lord Jason. His vile son, I would expect, with my brother's help I do not doubt."

His ears pricked at hearing this, and he swerved out of the designated path so that he may hear more of what Edwyn Frey had to say.

"What was truly tragic, however, was the treatment of my cousins. The funeral party was attacked, you see. By the Lightning Lord, I suspect. He killed my uncle's widow then and there, and dragged away two of my cousins, and my aunt. They were found later, hanged on the east side of the Trident. One of them was a boy of nine. Bloody outlaws."

So Walder Frey wasn't blaming Lord Mallister for the death of Walton Frey? That meant that his father would be safe, or, at the very least, as safe as could be guaranteed when you were the hostage of Black Walder Frey. This, at least, was good news.

"My other cousin had been promised to a Lannister, but not anymore. He has been given another, one of the whelps of my cousin Rhaegar, I think. The girl is fair enough, but the lion will have trouble getting her to spread her legs."

Chambers appeared to be listening to the Frey, but wasn't getting a word in. Edwyn was clearly drunk, and the sadistic lord was clearly manipulating him.

He started to walk down this side of the table, whilst Olyvar and Perwyn patrolled the other side. They passed two more Freys, both of whom had the golden hair of Lannister lions. These were clearly descendants of Emmon and Genna. They were of a similar age, and wore similar clothes. Both were dressed in blue and reds, and both were drunk. They were too young to know how to handle their alcohol correctly. This was when he moved past Olyvar and Perwyn, who both slowed their pace.

He walked past countless riverlords, their sons, their daughters or their knights.

There was one dressed in the green and brown of Blanetree, another in the gold and pink of Erenford, and one large man dressed in a strained jerkin of yellow, green and white, the colours of the Butterwells. These were Frey men.

He stopped roughly half way down the table, and rested his hand on his sword, as if he was standing watch over them. His gaze returned to Genna Lannister, and this time he took in the four women that surrounded her.

The one on her right was another thick set woman, with large hands. She was buxom. Her face was broad, and her eyes sad. There was the thin line of a moustache on her top lip. She wore a gown of brown and blue, with a small plow broach at her neck. She was a woman of Darry then, maybe Mariya, who had married a Frey, if his memory served.

The woman opposite her was weasel faced and thin, with a long neck and short, grey hair. She wasn't old, however, with no wrinkles upon her face. She wasn't as young as the next of the women, but certainly not as old as Lannister or Darry.

The woman to her right was the youngest of the four. She perched her seat with some elegance, and had her hands folded in her lap. Her hair was long and brown, with it tied into a braid that she wore over her right shoulder. She was fair of face and of a good complexion. Her gown was of light blue and yellow, showing her to be a Lefford of the Westerlands.

The last of Genna Lannister's companions was of a similar age to her. Her skin was baggy and her eyelids drooped. She hadn't aged like the Lannister, and was deathly thin where her companion was plump.

His eyes were then drawn away from the two women and onto the band that sang and danced behind them. There was three of them, all dressed in white, hooded robes. A thin one played the lute, whilst a large man danced a jig to it. The last man sang a song to the tune. He was currently in the midst of an epic about Aegon the Conqueror.

"...but Harren said no and returned to his home

And Aegon raised high and his dragon burned stone

Harren's line burned and they wailed and they shivered

And Aegon raised the trout, as Lord of the Rivers..."

That was when the seven hells were let loose in the Great Hall. That line was their cue.

Perwyn and Olyvar made the first move, as had been planned before, stepping forward and pushing their daggers through the necks of the two drunken youths. One of them fell forward and his head hit the table, the other struggled, and ended up on the floor, drowning in a pool of his own blood. That prompted a reaction.

Frey guards rushed forward from the side of the room, but fighting had already begun. The singer sent one of the men flying and picked up his sword. He drove it through the back of Genna Lannister's chair, pinning her to her seat, and penetrating straight through her stomach. The other women screamed, and tried to duck under the table, but the lutist had made his move, and slashed down the oldest of the four women, who dropped to the floor, dead before she hit it.

His eyes then turned up to the top of the table, where Lyonel Frey had reached for his sword, but he would not get to fight. The knife belonging to Lord Chambers had found itself in his throat.

It was a bloodbath.

The dancing man had tussled with the Butterwell man, who had been thrown to the floor, unconscious. A man wearing the unicorn of Brax lay next to him, though it wasn't clear whether he was dead or unconscious also.

The cataclysm of the battle occurred around him as he moved up the table, slowly passing brawling men and dead bodies still sat in their chairs. The Erenford man he had walked past earlier was slumped on the table, a dagger protruding through one of his eyes.

Emmon Frey was still sat in his seat, watching the fighting unfurl before him. Tytos had vanished, as had Chambers. Edwyn Frey was also nowhere to be seen.

He walked behind the statue like lord, and drew the dagger that had been strapped to his borrowed belt. He thought of the three dead Frey men. They had been the first casualties of this day. This man would be the last.

The dagger went to Emmon Frey's throat.

Emmon Frey resisted, but too late.

Emmon Frey died.

Then silence.

Then the doors opened.

The Lord of Riverrun was home.


	21. Alayne Stark

Alayne Stone woke from her sleep with a feeling that she hadn't had in a long time. She felt that she had finally found somewhere to fit in. She was distrustful of Myranda at first, but had come to see the girl as a friend. She and Mya had proved to be good company.

It was to her surprise, therefore, that when she pulled herself up from her lying position that she was no longer sharing a bed with the two girls.

Instead she was lying in the middle of a rocky wasteland, not a girl or town in sight. She was covered with a silk cloak that bore the monstrous face of a stone giant upon it. To her right there was a small fire, crackling away. She tensed. That meant that she definitely wasn't alone.

She rose from underneath the cloak, relieved to find that she was wearing some underclothes. Petyr had given them to her after they reunited in the Gates of the Moon. She remembered that much at least. They were grey and not particularly flattering.

Maybe this was all a trick on the part of Mya and Myranda. They could have arranged this whole setup. Maybe they got Ser Morgarth to carry her here, or gallant Ser Byron. Yes, that was what it must be. All some form of friendly jape at her expense.

Those were her thoughts until she saw the metal blade lying next to the fire.

Thankfully it was clean of blood, but it still meant that whoever was with her was expecting a fight. Was this some assassin from the Queen, here to punish her for the crimes of Petyr and Ser Dontos? Had strange Ser Shadrich spirited her here?

Old Nan had once told her, Arya and Bran a story about two men who broke into the Red Keep and killed a dragon in front of his mother. Bran had loved the story. He had always liked the scary ones. She had never understood that.

They had been her brother and sister once, along with Robb and Rickon and Jon Snow. Not anymore though. Robb was murdered and so were Bran and little Rickon. Arya was gone, dead most likely. Jon, however... He lived.

Alayne Stone had no siblings. She was Petyr's only child.

It was then that she saw the man that may have turn out to be her killer.

Her heart leaped when first she saw him as she thought that the Hound had come to her, as she had dreamed at the Fingers, but then she realised that this man was too small and too stocky to be Sandor Clegane. Strangely her heart sank at that thought.

He was stood on a rock, looking out over a long drop that fell into green fields. She could even see some trees in the distance. If he was a killer then he was wide open. She crept up behind him, readying to push him to his death.

"She's awake!"

That was a new voice. It was feminine and familiar. Her head was tired and she couldn't pinpoint it until she turned and saw the ice blue eyes and black hair of Mya Stone.

"At last. We can make the descent soon now."

The man had turned now too, and Alayne realised that she was looking at the honest face of Ser Lothor Brune, one of the knights that Petyr had at his disposal.

"I can spy groups of horses in the distance. They may have to abandon them for the climb, but they could still be on top of us by mid-afternoon."

"I know the kinds of people that Andar will have sent after us. We do not want to be caught. We should give her time to recover before we move, however, or else we may be caught on the descent."

"I agree. Get her some food and some water."

Mya put her arm around Alayne and sat her back down on a nearby rock. She offered her a bowl of cooling broth that she took with some reluctance. It was runny, as well as being a funny green colour. She had a few spoonfuls before putting it down.

"I can't be here, Mya. My father will be worried. We have to get back to him, Mya."

"Shhh, little one."

Mya's face was usually as hard as the mountain that she called her father, but for now there was pity in her eyes.

"We know who you are, Sansa Stark. Petyr can't protect you now. Not from where he is, at least. Me and Lothor, we are taking you to safety, little one. We are taking you home."

Home? Was that King's Landing, or was it Winterfell, or maybe the white stone fortress on top of the Giant's Lance? Home was where your family was, and Alayne Stone had no family.

"What do you mean where he is? Where is my father, Mya?"

"In a prison cell, child."

Lothor Brune was more intimidating when looked at from below.

"Him and the little lord Arryn both. He told me to look after you, and as I did with the accursed singer I do it again."

"They came for you after they took him. He sent Androw Tollett and Donnel Waynwood. They would have taken you and put you in a cold dark cell. Lothor fought them off. He saved us both."

Alayne Stone remembered Donnel Waynwood in passing, although Sansa Stark had never met the man. He had thick brown hair and a wide face. His nose had been large, and when he had kneeled before Robert it had almost touched the floor.

"We head for Saltpans now. Ser Quincy Cox was a friend to Petyr. He may be able to give us shelter and tell us of news from the Vale. You have been unconscious for nearly a day. The Redfort boy gave you a nasty wound to the side of the chest. You may find you have some bruising."

"Count yourself lucky, Sansa. Some didn't make it through the betrayal."

Her thoughts instantly rushed to Myranda and Robert. Had something bad happened to both of them?

"Both Ser Byron and Ser Morgarth were killed, or so I hear. Lyn Corbray tried to flee but was pinned down by five fully grown men. One of the few who deserves death, if you ask me."

That comment recived a glare from Mya's icy blue eyes and this caused Lothor to leave them, walking back to his rock and grumbling under his breath.

"I have him well trained now, Sansa, see? I can make him do whatever I choose. He knows how to behave when he is talking to the Lady of the Mountains."

It was another two hours before Alayne felt ready to move. Lothor had been right, walking was hard on her side. The knight picked up on this quickly, scooping her up in his arms and carrying her for part of the way. She looked over at Mya, worried that the girl would be jealous by this action. She wasn't.

They walked for a few hours like this, in near silence. Mya went ahead, using her skills to find them a path down the mountainside. Her feet were as nimble as the goats that they sometimes spotted. Once Lothor put his foot in the wrong place and sent a cascade of gravel down to hit the floor below them. Alayne couldn't even hear it hit the ground.

"This is an old path that was used by the Mountain Clans to make attacks on the lands of Tollett and Redfort. Mychel showed it to me on a map once."

The mere mention of his name darkened the mood. Alayne remembered Myranda telling her of the Redfort boy that had spurned Mya to marry one of Yohn Royce's daughters. It was Lothor, too, whose face sunk at the mention.

Soon she could start to spot more defined paths intertwining with the mountain below them. One of them must be the High Road. The ground here was icier and more treacherous. Lothor almost lost his footing twice more before they found their way onto more stable pathways.

"There's a way down to the High Road on the right, but last I heard it was blocked with snow. We may be better off taking less travelled paths to get to Saltpans."

Lothor had put Alayne down here, his arms tiring from carrying her. She lay on the ground as the two talked about the best way to reach their destination undetected.

It was at that point that she spotted the movement down below them. An armoured knight was limping down the High Road, their hand clutched to their shoulder and their movements somewhat veering as they tried to walk in a straight line. He had collapsed to the ground before the men came for him.

One of his assailants wore a rusted pothelm. It was him that first rushed to the body of the man. The other had a longbow drawn and locked, an arrow aimed at the unmoving body. The one with the helmet made some form of signal to his companion and the bow was lowered.

The knight must have had some considerable weight as it took both of the men to pull him out of Alayne's vision. Her two companions hadn't noticed the struggle on the High Road below them, and she felt like it would be pointless to mention it now that all the participants had moved along. Maybe the knight had been one of those that Andar Royce had sent after them.

It was another few leagues of walking before they eventually arrived at the town of Saltpans. Alayne had needed to be carried at first, but she had been able to limp the last bit of the distance to the town in the Riverlands.

Even here the snow of winter was starting to fall. The ground was covered in a hard frost when they arrived, but the light fall of snow hadn't done enough to cover the skeleton of the town. Her father had told her about winter once, told her of what it came with. Death and destruction came in its wake, he had said. That was very true here.

Where there had been houses before there were bones now. The structures that had once been there were being rebuilt in a fashion, no doubt by the people that had survived the raging force that had hit this place. Petyr had told her that a man wearing the helmet of the Hound had done this. Could he have killed all these innocent people?

"I visited Saltpans when I was a hedgeknight once. It was a nice place with nice people. The Seven should find spaces in all their hells for Clegane for doing this. He is truly a monster."

Lothor Brune's eyes were as wild as Alayne ever remembered seeing them.

The only building that remained standing was the stone castle of Ser Quincy Cox. It's gate had stayed closed to the raiders that had struck the town. It was closed now, adding to the image of an impenetrable fortress. Realistically the castle was nothing compared to Winterfell or the Eyrie.

They had to pass a row of graves to approach the gate. Lothor's eyes passed over every one, as if he was looking for someone that he remembered from his past visit. Most of the graves didn't have names, most likely their occupants hadn't either. They had been smallfolk. They had died because the high lords had played the game of thrones.

Robb must have done this to people in the Westerlands. How many women were mourning the loss of husbands or sons because of her brother? How many widows had he created? How many innocent lives had he cut short? She didn't want to think about it.

"Mya!"

The three of them then turned together. Stood at the other end of the passage of graves was a handsome young man, his hand placed on the hilt of his sword.

Mychel Redfort was tenacious, she would give him that. Had he seriously followed them over the mountains just so that he could curry favour with Andar Royce? What of his companions? Had they not made it? Maybe they had been killed by the people that had taken that knight on the High Road.

"In the name of Yohn Royce, Lord of the Vale of Royce and Warden of the East, I have been ordered to tell you to stop, hedgeknight, so that I may return the two ladies in your company back to their home."

He tried to conjure some authority in his voice, but his lack of experience made him seem to shrink in front of the quiet yet brooding nature of Lothor Brune. The knight contemplated his next move for a few seconds, before stepping forward, blocking the approach of Mychel towards Sansa and Mya.

"You're Lyn Corbray's squire, boy. I am intrigued to know what that pigfucker could possibly teach anyone about how to fight fair."

"I am Ser Mychel Redfort, Knight of the Vale of Royce. I will ask you one more time, Ser, step aside and let me take the two with me. I will let you go on your way then."

"You can take them back to your poxridden lord over my dead body, boy. I fight you for her honour. You will pay for what you did."

Lothor's draw was fast, his swing at Ser Mychel even faster, but somehow the young knight managed to dip backwards, almost falling on his behind. He regained his balance just in time to parry a strike that Lothor made at his right shoulder, knocking Lothor's blade to the right, and causing the knight to fall forward.

They clashed blades a few time after, with Mychel using his smaller stature to avoid the swings that the sellsword was aiming at him. Sansa looked to the left then, expecting to see Mya looking away. Instead the girl had gone as pale as a sheet, for once her light blue eyes lacked the piercing confidence that they usually held.

Mychel was caught out eventually. He parried one of Lothor's strikes too weakly, leaving him exposed in the middle. Lothor seized on the chance quickly, thrusting his sword up through Mychel's stomach, causing him to stumble backwards and fall on the floor into the dirt.

"Mya..."

She rushed to his side as he whispered her name barely louder than the sound of the breeze. Lothor sheathed his sword and walked away, leaving them to their privacy. His brow was covered in sweat from the fight and his face was hard, as if it was made from the mountains from where they had just come.

"I loved you Mya...my father...he made me marry her...I wanted...to fulfil my promise...I could have taken you across the Narrow Sea...to new mountains...we could have climbed together...I always wanted...you...Mya Stone."

Blood gurgled up from his throat then, spilling out of his mouth and down his white tunic, staining himself with the life blood that he had given that day.

Mya held him for a few minutes, her left hand supporting her head. Sansa almost cried at the sight, but then she remembered that she wasn't a little girl anymore. She had to be strong. When Mya rose she walked to the end of the line of graves and picked up a stray shovel. When Lothor saw what she was doing he stepped forward to try and help, but she shot him back with a look of her eyes. The lightning blue was scary when the girl was angry.

She started digging then, at the end of the aisle. The grave next along was unmarked. That meant that lying beneath the ground was the body of someone that had been deemed unimportant. Soon he would have a Knight of the Vale buried alongside him. Not that it mattered to either of them now.

When the hole was dug the girl did allow Lothor to help her. It was the knight that had killed him that carried him to the grave, laying him down gently as Mya crouched next to the tomb. She ran her fingers through his hair, and gently used them to close his eyes. It looked like Mychel Redfort had just gone to sleep.

She let Lothor cover him with the dirt that she had brought out of the ground, but watched as slowly his body and his face disappeared from her sight. She didn't respond when Sansa put her hand on her shoulder, her face instead remaining emotionless as she stared. Soon he was gone.

"His grave will remain unmarked. If I ever see his father again then I will tell him that he died a more honourable death. Mychel lived to make that man happy, the least I can do is make sure that his death doesn't spoil his entire life's work."

She walked away from him then, leaving her first love in the ground. It was Lothor that stood over Mychel the longest. Did he consider himself as the champion for Mya's heart, she wondered, or was he upset that it had come to the point that he had needed to take the life of such a young man to get them all to safety. That had been why Mychel Redfort had died, after all.

They walked down the aisle of graves again, this time reaching the gate without being called back.

"Would you care to do the honours?"

Mya was looking at her as she spoke, her eyes now having calmed from the anger she had shown earlier. They were magic eyes, truly. They could show all forms of emotion in their many depths.

"You're the Lady of Winterfell. They may open the gate to you, but certainly not to a bastard of the Vale or a sellsword who just killed a man outside their walls."

She was right. Ser Quincy hadn't opened for the men who had sacked town, it was unlikely that he would open his gates now for a man who had just committed bloody murder in front of his gate.

"My name- My name is Sansa Stark, the rightful Lady of Winterfell. I seek entrance to this castle with my friends, Mya Stone of the Vale and Ser Lothor Brune. I wish an audience with Ser Quincy Cox and a room for the night."

There was silence for a few seconds after she stopped speaking. They were deathly seconds. She was a wanted criminal. What if Ser Quincy decided to turn her over to the Queen? She would surely be killed for a crime that she did not commit. Coming here was not such a good idea.

Then the gate opened. There was no armoured retinue ready to take her to Cersei on the other side. Instead there was a lone man. He was dressed in the brown robes of a poor man, his hands dirty and his face round.

"Greetings, Sansa of the House Stark. My name is Brother Narbert, of the Quiet Isle. Ser Quincy is in the middle of a confession to the Seven. I have been told to bring you to him when he is finished."

Sansa wasn't sure what to do then. Was he inviting her in, or did he want her to wait here? His vague smile wasn't giving anything away. She needed to be told.

"I think our business today is more urgent than some old man's confession, monk. Stand aside and let us pass. We wish to see Ser Quincy now, not later."

The monk didn't object to Lothor's tone, and the knight stepped through, confidence in his footsteps. She followed after him, with Mya taking up the rear. Sansa couldn't help but see her take one last look back at the graves before the great wooden gates came to a close behind them.

Brother Narbert didn't put up much objection to Lothor's abrupt request to interrupt Quincy's confession. He led them through the corridors of Saltpans' single holdfast and up many flights of stairs. Eventually they reached a door that was ornately decorated with golden lining.

Sansa thought it strange that the man didn't knock, instead opening it without a sound and revealing a small sept chapel.

There were two men in the room, both sat in chairs. At first she thought that one of them was Ser Morgarth, with his red veined nose. She then realised that his jaw was too hard and his head shaved.

The other man was old and wrinkled, his hair having gone white and whispy on the top of his head. His eyes were brown, but the colour from them was starting to fade. This was a man that was close to death.

She turned to the larger of the two, assuming that he must be the Knight of Saltpans. He had the look of a warrior about him.

"Ser Quincy, I am Sansa of House Stark. I-"

"You talk to the wrong man, Sansa of House Stark. This is Ser Quincy Cox."

The man looked at her carefully, his eyes hard and his voice harder. The elderly Knight of Saltpans shuffled around so that he could take a closer look at her.

"Yes, I see the resemblance to your mother, girl. I knew her when she was just a babe in arms. I was in Riverrun for her birth, drinking with an old friend. What brings you here, Sansa Stark."

"I seek safety, Ser. Until recently I was staying with Lord Petyr Baelish in the Vale. I wish to stay here until I can return to him."

"I fear that you would be staying here a long time, child. Lord Baelish is as good as dead. I received a raven this morning. It said that...both lord Petyr Baelish and Lord Robert Arryn have...abdicated their positions in favour of...Lord Yohn Royce. Lord Baelish is to be tried for the murder of Lysa Arryn."

That comment caused a short intake of breath from Mya. Sansa remembered the look on her aunt's face as she fell through the Moon Door.

"The singer Marillion confessed to the murder of Lady Lysa. How can they try Lord Baelish for that crime?"

Even here Lothor Brune was loyal to the man that he served, standing up for the honour of Petyr.

"Lord Nestor Royce claims...that some new evidence has...come to light...Ser Lothor. Lord Baelish is to...be tried on the morrow."

"You say that Yohn Royce has seized power. What of Ser Harrold Hardyng? He was Lord Robert's heir. What has happened to him?"

"I received no word of...the whereabouts of Ser Harrold. I was asked to report news...should a party of two bastards...and a sellsword pass through. Fortunately...you are but one bastard...a sellsword...and a highborn lady. I have...nothing to report then."

The elderly knight smiled at Sansa knowingly, his lips a thin line on his wrinkled face. She couldn't help but feel some affection for the man. Maybe he was indeed braver than she had given him credit for after she saw the bones of his town.

"I do have...some other news that may be of interest to you, my lady. A raven came...yesterday...from Riverrun."

Her ears pricked up at the name of that castle. It was where her mother had been born. Her grandfather had ruled there before the war, now it must be her uncle, Edmure Tully.

"It is a message...from Lord Edmure. He calls to me...to declare my support...for his cause. He calls on all the River lords...to oust House Frey."

Her uncle was planning a war against the people that murdered Robb? That was fantastic news. She could go to the castle of her mother's birth and put herself at his feet and ask to be taken in. There was no way that he would refuse a niece that he had thought of as being dead.

"Declaring would be foolish."

Ser Lothor Brune interrupted.

"The Freys have a force stationed at Darry and the Lannisters have one at Maidenpool. The moment you declare they will attack and burn what's left of this town to the ground. You would be better off working in the shadows."

"The exact same advice that I gave."

The other man interjected. He had remained silent for so long that Sansa had almost forgotten that he was in the room. His voice was almost as cold as his eyes, and she got the impression that he didn't want to be here.

"The people of Saltpans have suffered enough war and conflict. They hardly need you to bring two separate forces down upon them."

"With all due respect, you are a priest not a warrior. Ser Quincy should fight for Riverrun, he just shouldn't send a raven there declaring it."

Lothor Brune's look on the stockier priest was a harsh one, almost disparaging.

"I have known more of war than you will find in a lifetime, Lothor Brune. I would advise you stand away or run back to your master."

He knew about Lothor? How could that be possible? Was this man from the Vale or King's Landing? Was he a Brune like Lothor? Sansa grew more and more intrigued by the burly priest the more she realised what she didn't know about him.

"I must return now, Ser Quincy. Entertain your guests, if that is what you wish. The Quiet Isle needs me. No doubt we will have had more dead bodies wash up on our shores."

He turned to Sansa and her companions.

"You three have a long journey left ahead of you. I know that one of you will never see your home again, but will be better off for it, another will reach a home but realise that wasn't where they wanted to be, and the other will find their home where they never thought it was. I wish you luck. For you, Lady Stark, I have a present. Proof that sometimes death can be reversed."

The ornate doors then opened for a second time. Brother Narbert stepped in first, followed by a large, limping shadow of a man. His face was badly burned on one side. At first she thought she was seeing things.

"Little Bird."

Sandor Clegane said, his voice gruff.

"You're alive?"


	22. Patrek III

The Great Hall of Riverrun was crowded with those that had come to see Edmure Tully returned to his rightful place as Lord of Riverrun.

The corpses of Emmon Frey and Genna Lannister had been tossed from the walls of the great castle and into the Tumblestone River, to be carried off downstream. Patrek had watched the weaselly Frey go, knowing that he had ended the man's life, even though he wasn't at fault for the crimes of his father or brother-in-law.

They couldn't have let him, live, however. He had done what was necessary to fulfil the trout of the Tullys to their rightful position. It was the likes of Marq Piper that he felt should have been judged more. It had been him that killed the defenceless Genna Lannister, which seemed like an unnecessary action to Patrek. She hadn't needed to die, and would have served as a useful hostage to use against the Lannister queen sitting in King's Landing. She would care little for the assortment of Freys that they had managed to capture during the brief fight.

Edmure Tully was stood on the table, looking over the people that were gathered to watch his return, many of them who had fought and killed for his right to be here now. Tytos Blackwood was stood at the front of the crowd, to his side was Jonos Bracken, his long time foe.

Lord Bracken had only arrived with Edmure, and Tytos' reaction had been frosty at best. They may have been working together to restore the Tully name to Riverrun but it clearly hadn't brought the two of them closer together.

The Lords Smallwood and Piper were also stood near the front of the room, with Clement Piper having bent the knee and being pardoned for his role in the Siege of Riverrun.

Patrek stood at the side, watching on as the hall gradually began to fill with people and the sound of hushed whispers. Edmure was uncharacteristically quiet, not speaking out to assuage their worries, instead standing on the table an looking out, his face having hardened since the last time that Patrek had seen him. He had always been a good man, amiable and fun to spend time with. He had often visited inns and brothels with Patrek and Marq, but Patrek couldn't see that man anymore when he looked up to the lord stood upon the table. He could see someone that had been broken down by the Freys and the Lannisters but had risen up and returned. The crowd hushed as he stepped forwards, readying to speak.

"People of the Riverlands, I am Edmure Tully, only son of Hoster Tully and the brother of Ladies Catelyn Tully and Lysa Tully. Four years ago I had a father and two sisters. I had six nieces and nephews. I had many friends amongst you, and my father trusted men here as some of his closest allies. One of my sisters and her son were murdered at the Twins were murdered at the Twins. Lord Tytos, you lost family too. Lucas Blackwood was a good man, as were your cousins, Lord Piper. Two of my nieces were killed on the orders of the bitch queen in King's Landing. It was on her orders, and those of her father, that led to the brutal massacres of your people and your friends."

"Lord Bracken, was your bastard son not murdered by the Mountain on the orders of Tywin Lannister? Ser Willis Wode, was your brother not gutted by Amory Lorch after he opened the gates of your castles to him? Did the vile Goat and his Bloody Mummers not ravage our lands and burn our septs in the name of the lion of Lannister? For too long have the kingdoms around us seen the Riverlands as nothing but a battle ground. We are the lands of the rivers and the streams, we are noble men from ancient houses. We are a proud people, not the pawns in the armies of a lion queen or a wolf king."

"Lord Walder Frey betrayed the trout of Tully to side with the lion of Lannister. Why should we waste our time chasing the minions of Casterly Rock when we can strike blows at the head of the serpent. Lord Walder will see our message clearly. We have his son and heir as our prisoner." At this comment he gestured over to the corner, where Edwyn was lying crumpled on the floor. His wife had been taken away and sent to one of the prisons of the mighty castle, sent there to await her fate. "We have ended the line of Emmon Frey and Genna Lannister. What more of a message can we send to Walder Frey and his brood that his kind are not welcome here."

"We will show the Freys what it means to betray and murder the men of the Riverlands soon enough, brothers, but first we will show the Lannisters of Casterly Rock up as the cowards and traitors that they are. Tywin Lannister is dead. Jaime Lannister is dead. Tyrion Lannister is a kinslayer and in exile. They are weak. Casterly Rock is weak. Let us show that we are not as weak as they are now. Let it never be said that the Riverlands are weak ever again."

There was a roar of approval from many of the gathered Riverlords, the loudest coming from Theomar Smallwood. The older man loved his fighting, and the Smallwoods may be able to steal some glory from a campaign in the Westerlands. Patrek could see Tytos Blackwood flash a worried look at Gerion Chambers, who returned it, a dark look on the man's face. Patrek could understand why the two would be conservative about what their lord was saying. The lion of the west may be weakened, but you only had to look at the fate of Roger Reyne to know that the Lannisters should not be trifled with.

"Our lives should not be dominated by the fear of a distant shadow. Who defends the West when their queen hides inside the Red Keep? Damion Lannister is barely a lion! He is a distant cousin of Tywin, and nothing like the man. Should we fear the pups that the bitch places in charge of her castle, or should we move against it ourselves. We can do this to avenge Lucas Blackwood and Harry Rivers, to avenge Raymun and Lyman Darry, to avenge my father and sisters and nephews and nieces. To avenge all those that fell at the hands of Tywin Lannister and his mad dogs of Lorch and Clegane all we have to do is take our fight to the West!"

The roar this time was even louder, with Jonos Bracken joining in this time, although Patrek couldn't hear his shouts over those of Theomar Smallwood and Marq Piper. Karyl Vance clapped too, standing to the side, nearer to Patrek than the table that edmure was stood on. His face had hardened at the mention of the Darry boy. Patrek had heard tale that the two had grown close, with Karyl making a deal to foster the boy as a squire when the war was over. They had both lost their fathers soon after the fighting began. Maybe they had bonded over that fact.

"Before we discuss the prospects of war and plunder, however, I must acknowledge the loyalty that many of you showed me in fighting for the cause of House Tully against the vile Frey who tried to place himself in my father's halls. Come forward Ser Olyvar and Ser Perwyn Frey!" The Lord of Riverrun waited whilst the the crowd parted for the two men. Perwyn came forward first, his eyes averted from Edmure, looking down at the ground. He kneeled beoe his lord. Olyvar was slower, no doubt not knowing what the correct procedure was. He soon dropped to his knee as well.

"For your loyalty and dedication to my cause, siding against your father and fighting instead for the trout of Tully I name both of you lords. Lord Olyvar will receive the lands and titles of House Charlton, whilst Lord Perwyn will receive the lands and titles of House Erenford. I also bestow Perwyn Frey with the title of Warden of the Eastern banks, meaning that it shall be his duty to prepare the defences of the Riverlands against any advance from Lord Littlefinger in the Vale. If he thinks he can have Harrenhal then he can come and take it from us."

"Other men should be rewarded for their service too, and I think that you will not find me lacking in that regard. Ser Hugo Vance shall be granted Harrenhal for his betrayal of the Kingslayer. I name Theomar Smallwood as the Lord of the Golden Tooth, for his service, and grant the castle of Downton Payne to the House of Piper. Other rewards shall be decided when we put the Westerlands to the sword and take it as our own!"

Theomar Smallwood let out a thunderous bellow at this comment, no doubt overjoyed by the significant bounty that he had claimed for his part in the restoration of the Tully family. No lands had been given to the Mallisters, Patrek noted, and he also spotted that his old friend made no mention of liberating the castles of Seagard or the Twins. Did he expect the Freys to sit n the north and let them attack their only allies. Walder did not care for Edwyn. He wouldn't hesitate to retake Riverrun the moment that Edmure left the castle.

"I offer you more than just empty promises, my brothers. I bring to you today a second gift, and one that I hope you will feel most pleased with. You all know well the treachery of the Freys, but I wonder if you know what prompted it. It was no lunge or push for power. It was a response to a grievous insult given to Lord Walder by my nephew. That was what prompted the butchery. My sister and nephew walked in to a butchery, as did many of your loved ones, and all because of a pretty face and softly spoken words. You all saw the queen that he married. She was the daughter of a bannerman of Tywin Lannister. Well I tell you this, friends, that girl's uncle was named Lord of Castamere. Robb Stark was tricked into marrying her for honour so that her family could reap the rewards. You suffered because of her and the Westerling treachery. Now I offer you a chance for vengeance and to strike back at the West. I offer you my nephew's bitch."

The great doors of the Main Hall opened, letting in the light from the outside. A man's figure stood in the doorway, tall and imposing, his right hand placed firmly on the hilt of his sword. Brynden Tully was not one to smile when he thought that something was awry, and the old knight had a frown on his face now, his weathered face even harder than his nephews. Knelt before him was a young girl dressed in filthy rags, the garb of a servant and not a queen. Tears stained her face, and Patrek was glad to see that Edmure had not had her harmed physically. Brynden slowly leaned down and whispered something in the girl's ear, keeping his eyes trained firmly on his nephew. Jeyne Westerling rose then and stepped forwards, slowly, as if to her own execution. She stopped before Edmure, standing straight backed in front of him. The look that he gave her when his eyes turned down to her was one of hatred. There was no love here, and Patrek had seen enough of what his old friend had become thanks to the Freys and Lannisters. He could feel the eyes of some of the gathered knights and lords fix on him as he turned and left through the newly opened doors.

Outside the entrance to the Main Hall there were scenes of happiness. Edmure Tully was much beloved by the smallfolk of the Riverlands. He had spared them when the times seemed darkest, harbouring them inside the castle gates, safe from the ravaging parties of Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch. That was before the emergence of this new side of the young lord. There had been hate in his eyes as he talked about Tywin Lannister and Jeyne Westerling. Walder Frey had hurt him, and his wife was nowhere to be found. She was likely on her way to Casterly Rock as they sat in the castle, waiting to see her husband again, not knowing that he wouldn't be awaiting her at the grand castle.

His wandering took him to the ramparts of the castle of Riverrun. He overlooked the Tumblestone from here. This was where they had thrown the bodies of the late Lord and Lady pf Riverrun over. Marq Piper and Gerion Chambers had volunteered to oversee it, but Patrek himself had little taste for shaming deceased foes. Gerion had suggested sending Lyonel Frey's head back to the Twins and Red Walder's to Casterly Rock, as a symbol of defiance, but the Blackfish had shot the idea down. He had been quite right to do so.

"Do you too wonder what has become of my nephew to the point that he shames young girls in public and talks of killing far away innocents?" Patrek had not expected the legendary Blackfish to join him on the ramparts. He looked older than he had before the Red Wedding, his face was more weathered and his hair had gone even greyer. "Captivity changes some men more than others. You were a Frey prisoner too, yet you must have retained your conscience. You see that the way he treats that poor girl is wrong. I saw my niece's son, and I saw the way that he looked at that girl and the way that she looked back at him. There was love between them. She was involved in no scheme to end his life, of that I am sure."

"How can you recognise love in others when you have never felt it's gentle caress, Ser." Another had joined them now. Marq Piper looked very different with his hair shaved short, yet now he stood here, standing up to the Blackfish with defiance in his eyes and his face firm. "Edmure is your family and also your lord. The Westerling girl is a traitor and should be punished as such. Edmure will see that a fair enough punishment is bestowed upon her. You should be supporting him, Patrek. What did all those past days together mean if you won't back him in his hour of need."

"Patrek Mallister is his father's son." Brynden Tully stepped closer to Marq then, his eyes suinting slightly as he gazed into the eyes of the man that had affronted him. "Jason Mallister is as fine a man as he is a fighter. I stood by his side on the Trident and he threw his life on the line to protect those men under his charge, smallfolk and noble alike. He is an honourable man and he wouldn't stand for the way that the girl is being treated. Are we to blame all children for the crimes of their fathers or mothers? I will show my nephew support when he stops acting like a bloody fool."

"This must be the Blackfish's famed disloyalty to his family. You ran off once because you couldn't do the duty that you owed to your brother and now you would do the same with his son. Don't listen to the words of traitors and cowards, Patrek, listen to the message from your heart that surely tells you to follow your friend and give him your support."

Marq was right in saying that he owed Edmure his support. He was his liege lord and oldest friend. At the same time he could understand the point of vie of the Blackfish. Edmure was marching himself into a disaster in the West and his treatment of the Westerling girl was appalling. He had to follow his liege lord or his conscience. Follow his friend into folly or find a place to hide away from the wrath of Casterly Rock and the might of it's many bannermen. Could Edmure not see that the people of the Riverlands were spent? Why would he throe away all their lives for petty revenge?

"Well must do our duty." He spoke, stepping in to the confrontation that was occurring between the two of them. "Whether we see the actions that we follow as flawed or ignore their negatives to suit our own gain is our decision. I will follow Edmure wherever his will takes me. That doesn't mean that I will ignore his mistakes and failures within those decisions that he follows. The Mallisters of Seagard swore their swords to the Tullys of Riverrun three hundred years ago. I am sure that my father would agree with me in saying that even now Edmure has our support, no matter what he does. That doesn't mean that I don't have my own reservations about those decisions that he makes. I am sure that our liege lord would not appreciate two of his most prominent fighters arguing within his own castle."

That was when he left, storming off and abandoning the two knights to their childish squabbles. The Blackfish had made a very valid point in saying that Edmure had clearly not thought his plans through, yet as he had told Marq, he was committed to his service to the Tullys. He had shown that by killing Emmon Frey. He had not taken pride in the murder, as Gerion or Marq had with theirs. He could still hear the whimper that the man had let out as his life and blood spilled out of him. Emmon Frey had not been a sinister man at all. He had been a man that been granted a death warrant alongside a grant to land.

"Ser Patrek! I have been sent to find you and bring before Lord Edmure" Ser Karyl Vance appeared before him, as if emerging from the shadows themselves. "He was most...displeased by your sudden departure earlier. He felt that it undermined the atmosphere that he was trying to create. I believe that he also sent Marq Piper after you."

Patrek was always slightly uneasy around Karyl. He wasn't sure whether it was the dark eyes or the prominent birthmark that made the man slightly eerie. He had a sense of formality that hid someone that was very capable of killing without a second thought. He was amongst the finest swords sworn to Riverrun and held a feared reputation as a fighter, yet he had bent the knee quickly to the boy king.

"I would have my lord forgive me if I dared to offend him. My father taught me not to be a man who relishes in the embarrassment and shaming of young girls in public." Patrek turned away from the knight standing before him, turning himself back to look at the great keep of Riverrun castle. "Is my lord waiting for me in his chambers?"

"I was ordered to accompany you, presumably so that you don't try and run away from scary old Edmure again. Follow me, Ser. I will act as your childminder for the coming minutes."

Karyl then walked off, his back straight and his eyes filled with glee at the opportunity to embarrass him further. The only thing that Karyl Vance preferred to fighting was the opportunity to make a younger knight feel smaller and inferior to him.

Karyl did indeed walk him up to the solar of the lord of Riverrun. Parek had never been inside when Hoster Tully had ruled, and it was clear that Emmon Frey had not yet had the chance to redecorate before his passing. Hoster Tully's suit of armour still hung on the wall, his longsword held above it on metal brackets. Edmure stood looking out of the window, joined by Jonos Bracken and Hugo Vance. Patrek was slightly worried to not see a single sight of Utherydes Wayn or Tytos Blackwood, both of whom may have been able to calm the angered lord.

"She should be placed in the stocks, my lord. Allow any riverman who wants her to take her. Prove to the world that she is no longer our queen and that she never truly was. Show them that the men of the Riverlands will always be superior to those from the Westerlands."

Hugo Vance was whispering into Edmure's ears, with Jonos Bracken nodding along on the other side. These two would not serve him well as advisors.

"As a bonus we can lift the morale within the camps. Give the men a bit of higher class meat to fuck over the pox ridden camp followers we may pick up in the West."

"What would you have done with the other Westerlings we hold prisoner, Ser Hugo? Would you have the girl of thirteen raped by our men? Would you behead an old woman and her ten year old son? My Lord, I am as loyal to you as I always have been. I pray that you see reason and do not listen to these men. They would have you punish an innocent girl and her entire family for the crimes of Tywin Lannister and Walder Frey. Tywin is dead. Let us march what army we have north to the Twins and end Walder for what he did. Then we can live in peace."

"Would you listen to the man who embarrassed you in front of all your subjects, my lord? Did brave Ser Patrek have your best interests at heart then? Was he thinking of you when he cowered as a prisoner in Seagard whilst I tricked and killed the Kingslayer? The Vances of Atranta have always been loyal to Riverrun. Give me command of the girl and her family and I will make sure that they are justly punished."

"Did Atranta remain loyal when you had your knee bent before the boy king on his throne? It was Seagard that was willing to defy the Lannisters, not you or your father, Hugo."

Patrek turned away from the newly named lord of Harrenhal, returning his attention to Edmure Tully.

"Give me three thousand men, my lord, and then allow me to ride north. I wish to liberate my father at Seagard. He is your loyal servant, as I am. I know that he would want to be by your side should you choose to invade the Westerlands."

"We have little more than fifteen thousand men under our control anyway, my lord. Should we send three thousand of those north to liberate a castle? Lord Jason lost it, should it not be for him to recover?"

Jonos blustered as usual, his voice not one that inspired any sort of confidence in the words that he spoke.

"Seagard was hardly touched by the war. Should they not have a full army to defend their lands?"

"My people suffered as much as yours, Lord Jonos. We supplied the war with food and grain. Now our lands are dry and parched. Our men cannot fight. They lost brothers and sons at the Whispering Wood and Riverrun. They lost their family liberating your castle and being murdered at the Red Wedding. Do not tell them that they have not experienced hardship and loss, or else I feel that they would happily gut every one of your whores. Maybe then you will know the true hardships of loss."

"That is enough Patrek."

Edmure Tully's voice was harsher now than it had been even before.

"I did not bring you here so that you could insult my friends and advisers. I want your opinion on the girl's fate. The men would have me kill her."

"I implore you not to, Edmure."

"Then what would you have me do with her. She is a traitor."

"Should she be punished for her mother and uncle's crimes?"

Jonos interrupted.

"You have to make a statement, my-"

"A statement of what? That King Edmure Tully executes innocent children? The girl and her siblings did nothing."

"Then how do I answer the mother's betrayal."

"Strip the girls and the boy of their titles and claims. Give me the three of them. Execute the mother."

Edmure turned away from him then, staring out of the window, down at the courtyard, where a large crowd had gathered.

"The mother dies. Take the boy, the girl, and the bitch queen with you."

"I thank you, your grace."

"There is one last thing, Ser Patrek. When you get to the Crag, and then travel south to Castamere, you kill the girl's father and uncle in my name. She watches."

He hesitated, grimacing at the prospect.

"As you say, your grace."

"The girl must pay. Her mother pays more. But she must pay too. Go, leave me. be loyal, Ser Patrek. I shall know if you are not."


	23. Bran II

"Jojen no! You can't do this! You aren't capable of doing this. Please, stop!"

Bran could hear the voices in his head, but all he could see was darkness. His eyes wouldn't open, and he first worried that maybe he was stuck in another coma. Had he fallen again? He heard Meera crying and shouting for her brother. He needed to save her.

"Jojen come back! Jojen!"

He fought off the darkness, pushed it to the back of his mind. He had to awake. He had to save her. He had to do this or else what would she think of him? He had to protect his friends.

Then the cave came into his sight. His eyes snapped open and he could immeadiately make out the twirling mess of roots and soil that made up his new home. He could still hear her voice, more distant now, as if he had been pulled away from her.

"Hodor!"

He called out to the gentle giant, entering his mind and having him pick him up. His mind had always been weak, but now it was meek and easily manipulated. He felt like he had complete control.

He almost had the large man run down the corridors, with Hodor almost hitting his head on low lying roots once or twice. He wasn't sure how but he knew exactly where he would find Jojen and Meera.

The main cave of the complex was more alive with activity than Bran had ever seen it. The Children that Meera had named Snowylocks and Ash were bustling around, calling out despearately in the old tongue. Brynden Rivers sat still in his eternal throne, his life as gone as it had been the day before. Meera and Leaf were crouching down next to the roots.

She was quieter even here than she had been in Bran's heads. Her calls for her brother to come back to her had turned into sobs. Bran couldn't see Jojen anywhere. Had he left the cave? He was as good as dead if he had.

It was only when leaf readjusted her body slightly that he saw the boy, spasming and foaming at the mouth as he lay on the ground, his right hand firmly placed on the root of a weirwood.

"Jojen! He can't do that! Remove his hand!"

Hodor placed him down next to the boy. Bran moved his hand to Jojen's forehead, to see whether it was hot.

His vision went dark again, but this time it felt like he was moving at an unbelievable pace. His skin was pulled back on his face and his long, auburn hair was ruffled in a strong wind.

Then he stopped, and his vision returned to him.

He was stood in front of the Heart Tree at the centre of the Winterfell Godswood. There was no sound, not even the rustle of the wind in the trees or the distant calls of the people of Winterfell. The place was dead.

"He lied to me, Bran. He told me I was special when I wasn't. He made me into the person that I am. He was a liar. You were always the special one. I brought you and I was repaid with nothing."

Jojen's voice rang out around the Godswood, yet the boy didn't appear before him.

"I was sent to you by my father, as his father sent him to your father. The magic of House Reed he said. We could see what was yet to come. In his youth my father saw a young girl and a war that broke out over her. She was your aunt. Many men died for her, but my father just said that it brought Stark and Reed closer."

Bran moved, trying to work out where the voice was coming from.

"He lied too, Bran. Don't you see it? You are surrounded by them. They are coming from all directions and all they care about is you. Men died because of what mu father saw. Do you think yourself any better?"

Then Bran finally saw figures. There was Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrik Cassel, both stepping out from behind the trees of the Godswood. Septon Chayle rose from the pool beneath the Heart Tree, his robes sopping wet. Mikken and Alebelly and Jory and Desmond all came towards him.

He looked up and he saw more. His father outlined in the stars, his mother beside him, but her stars were fading. He could see Robb and Jon, playing together as they did in the Winterfell courtyard when they were younger.

"They all died so that you would be brought to this man. He killed them and you killed them. Should I let them have their revenge?"

The men stepped closer, but then they vanished.

"You cannot die yet, Bran Stark. I have so much left to show you."

Suddenly he was no longer in the familiar Godswood, but instead standing in front of a large building built of black and white stones. He could hear running water somewhere behind him. He started to climb the steps that led up to the building.

"Your sister is inside those walls. Do you wish to see her again? Well you shall not. This building will be where Arya Stark dies. I can show you it happening if I want. Would you like to see the life leave your sister's body, Bran?"

He tried to call out to his friend. He tried to tell him that he wasn't thinking straight. This was Jojen's world, however, and his voice caught in his throat. He was silent.

The large building was gone then, and instead he looked down on a kraken covered in ice and snow. He could hear it breathing, but only faintly. It was shrouded in darkness, and when he looked up he saw that it was covered in the shadow of a huge, red man.

Then it too was gone, and Bran saw a number of other things flash by his vision.

There was a knight wrestling with a woman underneath a weirwood tree, a white cloak thrown to the wind. Then a man stood on a hill, looking down at two armies fighting below him. He took three arrows and notched them into a bow.

There was a wolf lying on the floor then, its eyes closed and its chest unmoving. A crown was laid on the ground next to it, still rolling from where it had fallen.

Then the wolf changed form, first into a white bird and then into a golden lion. The lion was covered in red, sticky blood, whereas the others had both been clean, although none had shown their eyes.

His vision changed again, this time to a man stood next to a large and fast flowing river. One side stood a large camp of tents, but on this side the man was very much alone.

He was tall and strong, but pale as well. Bran felt that he had seen the dark eyes of this man before, but he couldn't put his finger on it.

He watched as the man knelt to the ground and placed something in the water. He whispered something, but Bran couldn't hear it.

Then he was back in the Godswood, Jojen's voice coming back to taunt him.

"That man was one of your namesakes. There are so many Brandon Starks that I think you'd struggle to know him. He was a bastard, born of a Lady of House Reed and a man of House Stark. He had king's blood, yet history didn't record his existence. Just like they won't record yours."

Bran moved then, stepping forward on his legs, a experience that he had never appreciated until now. He flew up the Heart Tree, as he had done so many times before. Before the accident at the tower. Before his coma. Before Meera and Jojen and Theon.

That was when he saw the boy, leaping through the trees, more nimble here than he had ever been in the real world. Was he inside Jojen's mind. Was this what Jojen wanted to be?

He started to follow the boy, across the guard's hall and the armory, then up the walls of the First Keep. The older boy started to swing from gargoyle to gargoyle, and Bran followed suit, not stopping until he realised that he could no longer see Jojen.

"Do you remember here, Bran? This was where you fell. I watched it happen in my dreams. I thought that made me important, but I was wrong. It was all a lie. Do you remember what you saw hear, what you heard? Do you remember who pushed you from this very window?"

Bran dropped then, his hands just letting go of the gargoyle of their own accord. He could hear his friend laughing as he fell.

He never hit the ground. Instead he landed on top of a giant, fleshy object. It was a person, laid out in the snow, blood pouring from his wounds but his body already frozen up.

He recognised the face of Big Walder Frey after a few moments of thought. Stood over him was man wearing a hood that covered his face. When he pulled it back all that was there was a shadow.

"Did he die for you too, Bran? Did you have a hand in his murder?"

"No! I didn't touch him, I never did! I didn't want any of them to die! Not Jory or Maester Luwin or Alebelly or anyone! I miss my father, I miss my mother, I miss Robb and I miss home! I'm just like you!"

"No, Bran Stark, you are nothing like me."

Jojen was stood over him then, his face harder than Bran had ever seen it. Behind him was a snow storm, the signs that winter had come. Trudging through the snow was a man dressed all in black that Bran didn't recognise.

His eyes were blacker than the night and his slim face was lined from living through harsh winters.

"This man is important, Bran. When the time comes you must find him. He can tell you what no one else can."

Jojen offered Bran a hand up then, which confused him. He had been taunting him and showing him all sorts of cruel visions before. Why had he decided to be kind now? What had changed?

"You showed remorse over those who have lost their lives to come, Bran. I didn't think you cared. I thought that the part of you that cared about your friends and family had died and been replaced with his soul. He was a liar, Bran. Don't trust what he told you."

"Who do you mean, Jojen? Do you mean Brynden? What did he lie about? Why shouldn't I trust him?"

"You will see soon enough. I have more that I need to show you. We don't have much time."

Jojen took his hand then and the snow around them vanished. Instead they stood amongst red mountains, looking out over a tower. Three men were before it, one kneeling whilst a small man held a sword at his throat, the other had just made a line of the dead.

"That is your father, Bran, thee one moving the bodies. My father is the other one. You recognise the knight?"

"That's Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning..."

Bran was in awe at the sight. Old Nan and his father had told him stories of the man that had wielded the blade known as Dawn. They had told him that he was the greatest fighter that had ever lived, that he fought with the grace of a swan and the speed of a wasp.

"This is where he dies, isn't it? At the end of Robert's Rebellion Arthur Dayne, Oswell Whent and Gerold Hightower were all killed by my father. I know that story."

"There are three fathers here, Bran. You know the son of this knight. He is close to you now. Ser Arthur Dayne does not die here. He does not die in the warm."

The man that held the knife dropped it on the orders of Bran's father. As it fell so did Ser Arthur, panting and moaning as he fell to the floor. He was wounded.

Howland Reed stayed with the knight, offering him a hand up as Jojen had just done to Bran. Ned left, walking up the steps to the tower.

"Should I follow him?" Bran asked his guide, but Jojen shook his head.

"Find the black brother and he will tell you what happened in that tower. You must find him, Bran. Come, there is more to see."

Jojen took his hand again and the mountains vanished. They were back in Winterfell, in the courtyard. He looked around for a familiar face, but he couldn't see any. There were two boys sparring in the middle, a gaggle of grown men gathered round to watch them. They fought for a bit longer, but then the smaller of the two was sent sprawling.

The larger one raised his sword to the air in celebration, and many of the men started to clap. Bran saw some of them exchange money.

"You fought better this time, Ned. Maybe one day you could rise to a level when you can fight Southron knights. Never be strong enough to take on a full Northerner, though!"

This remark brought cheers from the crowd, and Bran smiled as he watched his father rise from the floor. He remembered having to do that when Robb or Jon used to send him sprawling.

He looked around to see Ser Rodrik, but the man wasn't here. Instead there was a taller Master-at-Arms, his hair long and brown.

"Walder!" The large man called out a single name and a large boy loped forwards.

"Help Ned out of his armour. You know where to store it."

Jojen leaned down then, ready to whisper in Bran's ear.

"You know who that is, don't you, Bran? A young stableboy called Walder who has dreams of serving the direwolf of Stark as his family has done for generations."

"Hodor..." Bran whispered, more to himself than anyone else, and then they were gone.

Bran was next stood at the top of the Wall, looking out over the Haunted Forest. When he looked up to his right he realised that it wasn't Jojen that was stood with him.

This man was thinner and taller, with dark hair and dressed all in black. Bran recognised his uncle with relative ease.

"I know that you are there." Benjen Stark said, startling Bran at first.

"You can come out, Ser Alliser. I called you here for a reason."

Bran looked behind him and saw the same black brother that he had seen wandering in the snow earlier come forth from the shadows.

"You called for me, Stark."

His tone was sullen and dark. He said Benjen's second name almost as if he was spitting it out into a chamber pot.

"I have need of you, Ser Alliser. Soon I will disappear and go missing north of the Wall. You will be sent north yourself one day after, but the rest of your party will die. You will find a boy in the snow. He will be crippled and near death. You must tell him the truth then."

His uncle disappeared before his very eyes, as if turning to dust before him. Bran reached out, trying to touch the first semblance of family that he had seen in years, but he was cruelly snatched away from him.

"Someone else is trying to take control. Our time will be up soon. Meera was right, I shouldn't have come here. I had to show you the truth. Find the ranger, Bran. He is your only hope now."

Jojen's voice got gradually fainter as Bran was left in darkness.

Here he could walk. He made a few tentative steps, but nothing came into view. He started to wlak more confidently. It felt like hours passed, but still nothing appeared to him. There was only darkness here. Then voices started to echo around him.

"Can a man still be brave if he's afraid?"

"That is the only time a man can be brave."

That was his father. He had said that on the day that they found Summer. He whirled around, trying to find where the words had come from.

"A dead enemy is a thing of beauty."

"I have won every battle, yet somehow I am losing this war."

"Don't look away. Father will know if you do."

Theon, Jon and Robb? Were they here? What was this meant to mean?

"Its north he should be taking his swords. North, not south."

"If ice can burn then love and hate can mate."

Osha and Jojen now? He didn't understand. Usually he held control of his visions, but here they seemed random and unconnected. Suddenly it wasn't voices but visions that he saw.

There was Robb, crossbow bolts in his stomach, being stabbed in the chest by a man Bran vaguely recognised. He saw a blonde haired man, Ser Jaime Lannister, losing his right hand. He saw Theon Greyjoy stumbling through the darkness, surrounded on all sides by stone faces looking down upon him.

Rickon, Arya and Sansa, all running and all still alive. A knight dressed all in white beheaded in the sands. He saw his father cradling the hand of a woman, a crying coming from behind him. A dragon flew high amongst the mountaintops, a boy laughing on his back.

Then he was falling the boy and Bran too. It felt like it would never stop, but then it did, both suddenly and sickeningly.

He was in another courtyard now, but this one wasn't Winterfell. This one wasn't as large as the one at home, and branches hung over the walls, almost blocking the sun from view.

Bran startled when he heard a sound, but then he relaxed when he realised that he couldn't be seen.

A small boy had just left the building that must have made up the main keep and living quarters. He was dressed in greens and browns, a three forked spear slung over his back, similar to Meera's. When he looked at him Bran could see that his eyes were a light green shade, but that they sparkled in the early morning sun.

Then the man disappeared, but Bran stayed where he was. There was something else here that he was meant to see. He could feel it in his bones.

He stepped into the main keep. It was darker and chillier in here than even in the halls of Winterfell. There were three flights of stairs. He took the one on the right. He knew that was the way he was meant to go.

His heart pulled him in the right direction, leading him up more stairs and down more corridors. He could tell that he was close now. He stood before a door, and he knew that on the other side was something that he was meant to see.

He pushed it open gently, revealing what lay on the other side.

Time stood still, as it usually did in these visions. There was a woman, sweat on her brow and Bran could tell that she was aching, yet she smiled wide, as if the world had given her the greatest present it could give.

She lay on a bed, and sat next to her was the man that Bran had just seen leaving. He was older now, with a short head and creases on his face. He looked almost as tired as the woman did. In his arms he held a child, a baby girl. Bran stepped closer, further into the room.

"My sister." Jojen was there again, stood by his side.

"That is my father and mother. Look at the eyes Bran. That is what is important."

Bran did as he was told.

Howland Reed's eyes were as green as they had been in the first vision. He was unsure what was so special about them. It was only when he looked at the woman that he realised what Jojen meant.

They were a haunting violet. The vision faded then, but those eyes were the last thing that disappeared from Bran's view. It felt as if they had been looking straight at him.

Then they were back in the courtyard. Jojen was no longer stood by his side, but instead was stood directly opposite him, his face even sadder than usual.

"He's coming now, Bran. Remember everything that I have said. You have to be brave. Tell Meera that I said goodbye."

Bran tried to run to his friend, but his legs here didn't work, just like they didn't outside the weirwood network. He was frozen in space.

He tried to cry for his friend, to call out to him, but he couldn't do that either. No tears would come to his eyes. They refused his commands. He held no power here.

"I am glad I got to see this place again, even if I'm not really here. We all deserve to go home once before we die, Bran. You must find your own way now."

He smiled at him then, and Bran thought that was unusual enough. Jojen hardly ever smiled. Maybe he was happy that he had reached the end of his journey.

The sword pierced through the boy's stomach then, and now Bran could call out. He screamed and wailed as Jojen fell onto his knees, and then onto his side, the trace of a smile still upon his lips. His death had been instant.

Then Greywater Watch was gone, and Bran was surrounded by ice and snow. Was this winter? Was this the end? Surely whoever had killed Jojen would take him too.

"You have to be brave, my son. It is okay to be scared, I would call you a fool if you weren't, but here and now you have to be brave. To save your sisters, if nothing else."

Bran turned to see the source of the voice.

His father stood behind him, wrapped up in one of the wolfskin cloaks that he used to wear when he was going out hunting. He held Ice before him, the point digging into the ground and his hands wrested on the pommel. He smiled at Bran, a softer smile than he had ever seen on Ned Stark's face.

"We are all here for you now, Bran. I lost my wars, but all of yours are still to come. Be brave, and find your way home. Find my bones and lay them where they should be, little brother."

Bran turned again, this time to his right. There was Robb, a crown upon his head and Grey Wind stood by his side.

"You are Lord of Winterfell now, Bran. You have to remember that history is a lesson to those who need reminding of what the future holds."

Another voice, this one old yet kind. Bran knew that it was Maester Luwin before he even turned to look at the man. He had heard that voice for almost every day that he had lived.

"I taught you how to fight with sword and arrow. You were always a brave boy, Bran. You would have made a fine knight when you were older. Now you must use that bravery once again. You are the North's only hope."

Bran was surrounded now. Ser Rodrik was the newest arrival, his white whiskers flapping in the wind.

"How can I be brave now? Everyone I loved is gone. You are all dead, all because I couldn't save you. Now Jojen is dead too, as well as Chayle and Alebelly. I killed them."

It was his father that stepped forward, crouching down and putting his right hand on his shoulder.

"Everyone has a time to die, Bran. Some die earlier than others, but the Old Gods have a plan. You have been shown all you need to save anyone else from losing their life, you have to be brave now. We cannot come with you where you are going, not like this. Know, however, that I will always be with you, my brave, brave boy."

Bran looked up at his father, a young boy, terrified of what was to come.

"But I'm so scared, father."

"Good, for that is the only time that a man can be brave. You are a man now, Bran, one beyond his years. Go on and face your destiny. Find the black brother in the snow. He will tell you the truth. We all suffer losses, Bran, that is the way of life. It is your job to make sure that no one gave up their life in vein. I will always be proud of you, we all will be. You have given us every reason to be."

He went then, leaving behind the people that he cared about, leaving behind the boyish hope that one day he would see them all again in the living world. Death was everywhere in this world. His father was right. He could not save those whose lives had been cut short, but he could help them by giving meaning to their death.

There was a gateway up ahead. Bran walked to it steadily, seeing the storm raging on the other side. Jojen stood by the gate, the same smile on his face here that he had worn when he died. This seemed to be the happiest that Bran had ever seen him.

"This is the last time we will see each other, my Prince. I have served my purpose in bringing you here. Go on without me and face what must be faced. Remember this though, Bran. Today is not the day you die."

Jojen vanished too, like they all had before him. Bran breathed in deeply, remembering the faces of all those that had suffered to get him here, and then he stepped through the gate, as scared as he always had been, but now brave enough to take action.


	24. Jaime Lannister

The room was nearly empty.

A young boy sat on a lone chair in the centre, with several larger men pacing around him, with another slouched against the far wall. He stood by the door, with the Mad Mouse stood opposite him, protecting the lordly meeting from interruption.

"What is your name, boy?"

That question came from the largest of the pacing men. He was tall and weathered, his face lined from age, yet still his arms bulged. He hadn't lost his shape when he aged, not like Robert had. He commanded a presence, but not in the same way that his lord father ever had. Yohn Royce was just a naturally intimidating man.

"I have no name...no name, no questions."

The boy's voice was broken and twisted, as if he felt pain in every word that he said. He wore dirty rags, sodden and stained with piss and mud. He had been confined to a cell for the last four days.

"All boys have a name. Do not be foolish with me. What is yours?"

"No name..."

Yohn cursed and moved away from the boy, and then one of the other figures swooped in, like a circling falcon. Balding, barrel chested Nestor Royce.

"Very well, boy. You have no name now. What were you called before you met Petyr Baelish?"

"Before... Before... I do not know... I remember wine, and a fight. There were lots of people... They were angry... They killed the knight who came after me as I was dragged away... That is all I remember."

"It's pointless asking him anything, father. The boy is clearly mad."

That was another one of the circling men. Yohn Royce's son, he suspected. He had been the one to beat Brienne and break Oathkeeper.

"If he knows anything about what tied Grafton and Corbray to Baelish then we must know it. We cannot allow Gerold Grafton to walk free and control Gulltown. We must be able to grant the city to some loyalist."

"The Shetts?"

"Maybe. If they can stop bickering amongst themselves."

The slouched figure stepped forward at that, his face composed and his eyes gleaming.

"Mayhaps, I could spend some time with the boy. Ask him some questions."

"He has been through enough, Templeton. We do not torture him for answers. That is not the way that House Royce will operate when we serve as Kings of the Vale once again."

It wouldn't be proper torture... Just a little bit of pain... Pain always helps."

The boy in the chair looked scared at this, and tried to shimmy away. Instead he just knocked the chair over and fell on his back. Nestor had to lift him from the ground.

"I remember... I remember something else... There was a blonde haired woman... She asked me to kill her husband... She said that she would see me rewarded if I did..."

"A blonde haired woman? You don't think..."

"Who else could he mean?"

His own brain had arrived at the same conclusion as Yohn and his son. The boy had killed King Robert on the orders of Cersei, his sister. That could mean only one thing.

"My name... My name is Tyrek Lannister!"

That confession brought silence to the gathered lords. Tyrek was his cousin, the son of one of his uncles. He had been missing for more than a year. Had Littlefinger had him all this time? What had brought the Lannister lion so low?

"Tyrek Lannister is missing. It could be him."

The last of the men not to speak stopped his pacing then and spoke.

"Why would Baelish entrust such a valuable prisoner to Lord Grafton. It makes no sense."

Yohn knelt down next to the boy and spoke in a more hushed tone than usual.

"If you are who you say you are, boy, then you must tell us how you got here. Can you remember that?"

"There... There were three men... They grabbed me during the fighting... They pulled me out... One of them was called Oswell... No, Osmund... He said that he was sending me somewhere far away from the fighting and the death... It was him that killed the knight... Preston Greenfield..."

Preston Greenfield? He had been one of his Kingsguard brothers, back when he actually wore his cloak and armour. He had been killed in the same riot that Tyrek had disappeared in, that was true, but he had been told that the man was trying to aid the High Septon.

As for Osmund Kettleblack and the other two men, who he assumed were the man's younger brothers. It did not surprise him at all that they were in the employ of Baelish. They were sellswords at heart, and if there was one thing that Littlefinger had going for him then it was a talent for making money.

"We must remember this information. I feel it will be important when we interrogate Lord Baelish and Lord Grafton. I wonder how much he knew about the boy's lineage. What happened to you in the Vale, child?"

"We arrived at a small castle... It was wet and raining... He wasn't there, but a man represented him... His name was Oswell, I'm sure of it this time... He scrubbed me down and had my clothes cleaned... He told me I was safe."

"And were you?"

"I thought so... He came after a few days... He said that he had come to see me... He only stayed for two days... Then he left."

"And what did he do with you?"

"He... He did nothing sent me to another castle... Hardhome?"

"Heart's Home. He must mean Heart's Home."

"If the boy was sent to the Corbrays then how did he end up with Lord Grafton."

They were suddenly interrupted, as a Maester entered the room, after a polite, if quiet, knock. Shadrich moved for his sword, but he knew there was no point. It was unlikely that this Maester had a link in the arts of assassination.

Colemon was the name of the man, a fact that he had learned from Shadrich, and he was small and thin, with little hair, a long neck and pursed lips. There was something pale about him, also.

"My lords, I have received a raven from Lord Hunter. I brought it to you straight away, as you asked."

"Hunter best be sending good news. What does the letter say, Maester?"

"He says this. Success in battle. Corbrays beaten. Lord died fighting. Moving to besiege."

"Not a man for words, our Lord Hunter."

That comment earned a chuckle from some of the gathered lords, but no smile found it's way onto the Maester's lips.

"May I leave you now, my lords?"

Yohn sighed and waved his hand in the direction of the door.

"You may."

The Maester left as soon as he could. It was evident that the man didn't like the Royces that he now served. Something about him kept him loyal to the shaking lordling.

"If Lyonel Corbray is dead then we may never know what happened to the boy. Only the younger son remains, with Lyonel and Lyn slain."

That caused Tyrek to wince, and again he fell over, and again he was picked up by Nestor.

"What was that, boy? Did I say something to upset you?"

"You said his name..."

"Who's name?"

"His name... Lyn... Lyn Corbray..."

"Corbray? Why would Corbray scare you?"

"Do you have to ask, father? What do you think Baelish was doing handing this boy over to Corbray? I can only imagine the vile and unholy tortures that Lyn inflicted upon him whilst he was in his care."

The group was silent for a few moments after that, and Yohn placed his hand on the crying boy's shoulder.

"Have him delivered to Ser Sam. He is to be sent back to Runestone and kept under a strong guard. Send a raven to the Red Keep and Casterly Rock. Tell them that we have recovered the boy, and will give him back at a price."

It was the unnamed lord that responded at that.

"Yes, my lord. It shall be done."

The man put his arm around Tyrek and escorted him from the room. He caught sight of the lord's sigil as he passed. It was green, with a red wheel.

"Son, fetch us Lord Grafton. We will talk first with him before Lord Baelish. He may have some information to share with us."

Yohn's son nodded at that, and left the room through the same door as the other lord. That left Yohn, Nestor and Templeton.

"Is Waynwood to be trusted?"

"Ser Donnel is. I'm not so sure as to the intentions of Lady Anya. She has always been prickly and tricky to work with."

"Could she have been involved in Hardyng's disappearance?"

"It's possible. She cared for the boy like her own son. She would unlikely want him in a cell."

Templeton stepped forward again.

"Would she be willing to risk the continuation of her family and her name for the safety of the boy? She surely knows that you will hunt him. Better not to risk it, my lord."

"You speak wisely, Templeton. Lady Anya is no fool. She will have put her family's survival over the heir's. See what Grafton can tell us about the boy, then. Maybe Baelish had plans put in place for the boy to be taken to Gulltown."

"So close to Runestone?"

"Sometimes it is best to hide things in plain sight. Grafton will know, and the man is a craven. If he knows anything then he won't dare keep it from us."

"Agreed."

Templeton moved back to his place at the side of the room, but the elder Royce stuck out his hand and grabbed the man.

"Go to Maester Colemon. Ask him if we have received a raven from the Snakewood. I was expecting Lynderly's response before now. If he says no then have a raven sent to Lord Coldwater, tell him to send his forces down to pressure our friend into bending his knee. It is possible that Hardyng escaped Ironoaks and was spirited away to the Snakewood."

"As you say, your grace."

Templeton inclined his head slightly, before leaving the room at a brisk pace. Jaime caught a glance of the man's eyes. He was not happy with this decision.

"Can he be trusted, cousin?"

"No. But for now we need him. That will not be the case forever, fortunately enough. Soon he must be gotten rid of. He is too Andal for my taste."

"True enough, cousin."

The door then reopened, and Andar Royce strode back into the room, his hand on the shoulder of a large man, who quivered under the pressure.

"Lord Gerold Grafton, father. I apologise for the smell. He pissed himself on the way here."

That much was true. The smell of piss was strong on the shaking lord. Would his people follow him if they saw him as he was now?

"He may take his seat."

Andar forced Grafton down into the seat that had been recently vacated by Jaime's cousin. Somehow the Grafton came across as smaller than Tyrek had, despite standing a good foot taller.

"Lord Grafton, I hope that we did not interrupt any of your activities to bring you up here for questioning. I hear you spend most of your time on your knees in front of Lord Littlefinger. This means that you may have worthwhile information."

Grafton stayed silent for several moment, instead inspecting the various members of his inquisition frantically, fear in his eyes.

"So do you?"

Silence again.

"The dog won't speak. He should be tried for the same crimes as his master, father."

"No! No! I know things! I swear!"

"Like what?"

Silence.

"Can you tell me where Harrold Hardyng is? Can you explain to me why you were holding Tyrek Lannister for Lord Littlefinger?"

"Ty- Tyrek Lannister? I- I don't know-"

"Spare us your lies, worm."

"Careful, Andar. Baelish may not have told Lord Grafton everything about his plans. The man was not the most outgoing."

"He told me some things! There was a girl! A merchant's girl!"

"What merchant's girl?"

Grafton looked relieved. He had found something that his questioners didn't know about. This was his way out of the danger of death.

"The daughter of a Gulltown merchant. He told me- He told me that the girl must be given to Harrold Hardyng, after he was knighted in your melee. We invited him to a feast. The girl was there. Saffron! That was her name."

"Why did Baelish want Hardyng to father a second bastard?"

"He said- He said that he was going to pretend the child was his daughters. That then the child would be the rightful heir to the Eyrie."

Nestor looked puzzled at this news.

"Why does the virtue of Alayne Stone matter so much to her father? The girl is baseborn. Why would Baelish not want her spoiled?"

The gathered lords stood in silent for a few seconds, whilst Lord Grafton looked at them hopefully. He clearly thought that he had done enough to earn his freedom.

"He was saving the girl for someone else, someone that would be willing to take a widowed bastard to bed. That is the only possibility."

"But who, cousin? Who fits that description? I have a hard enough time finding a match for Myranda..."

"There is only one person that he could have been saving the girl for, father."

Andar Royce had a look of repulsion on his face as he spoke.

"He wanted her for himself."

That answer caused the gathered lords to be stunned into silence. Grafton almost retched onto the floor.

"Surely then, the girl cannot be who he says she is. That was what we suspected, was it not? Andar, go to Helliweg. Ask him for the accounts we received from the smallfolk of Baelish's castle. I want every one where Alayne Stone is mentioned to be brought to me now."

"Yes, father."

Andar left then, with Templeton returning at the same time.

"Now news from Snakewood, your grace. The Maester has sent a raven to Coldwater Burn. We will have news within the week, I would imagine."

"Lynderly is playing a dangerous game. Why would he refuse to stand down like this? He has nothing to gain from continuing hostilities. Is he really that loyal to Littlefinger?"

"Baelish served for a time as a squire at the Snakewood. He has likely known Lynderly since then. Mayhaps they are friends."

"A good point, cousin Nestor. Baelish also served in Gulltown, under the orders of Jon Arryn. Was that where he befriended you, Grafton."

Grafton hesitated. No doubt he didn't want to let slip any important evidence. During the hesitation, Ser Andar returned, slipping in through the door silently.

"Me and Petyr met then, yes. He would often attend my father's feasts, and we would talk about or love for Jon Arryn-"

"Be honest with me."

"That is the truth!"

"I would sooner believe the bitch queen and her flower smelling companions. Tell me the truth, damn you!"

"We- We used to drink together. He- He told me stories about his time at Riverrun. He said that he had taken both the Tully girls maidenheads. He said that he had slept with Lady Lysa on multiple occassions."

"And? Why should we care about the goings on at Riverrun?"

"He said- He said that he hadn't stopped. That they slept together whenever he went back to the Eyrie. Lord Arryn never knew."

Andar Royce shook his head.

"This is preposterous. Have the man beheaded for treason and be done with it, father."

"No... He may have a point, cousin. When I served as Lord Steward, I did notice some strange goings on between Lord Arryn and Lady Lysa. It was like he had lost all the love that he had once had for her. Perchance, this may have been when he found out about her affair."

"That would tie in with what the maester said. It would tie in perfectly. Thank you, Lord Grafton. Return him to his cell, Templeton. He will be given an official trial on the morrow. I do not see death in your future, my lord."

Grafton whimpered his thanks as Symond Templeton pulled him out of the room. The man was more craven than anything Jaime had seen. Even the whores of King's Landing could stand up for themselves better than that.

"Father, what do you mean that it ties in perfectly? What did the maester tell you?"

"He told me a theory."

There was nothing more. Lord Royce had nothing more in the way of a response. This left his son frustrated.

"Damn you, father. I cannot help you if you share private words with Baelish's own maester and refuse to tell me of them."

"The maesters own beliefs were not important at the time."

Lord Royce turned to them.

"You. Knight. Ser Shad, is it?"

"Ser Shadrich, your grace."

"yes, ok. Go to the prison cells and bring Lord Petyr Baelish up here. I would like to have a lengthy chat with Lord Littlefinger himself. Let us see if that can help us get to the bottom of some of these mysteries."

Shadrich nodded at that, and left the room, shooting a begrudging look in Jaime's direction.

"Our dear friend Colemon has his suspicions about Lord Robert's parentage. He told me that Jon Arryn had the same beliefs. He thought that Robert was the offspring of an affair on the behalf of Lysa."

"Why would he think that about his own wife?"

"Cousin, you know as well as I do that the Arryns struggle to have children, or have in recent years. Jon Arryn had two wives before Lysa, neither of whom gave him a child. Lysa Tully had several miscarriages, and then suddenly a boy. Robert shares no traits with his father, whether in appearance or in character."

"He inherited his mother's madness..."

"Who would you say is the father? Baelish? That's impossible!"

"Is it, cousin? Lady Lysa made frequent trips back to the Eyrie whilst Jon was in King's Landing. She said that it was so Robert could get to know his castle..."

"You think it was so that he could get to know his father?"

"I do."

"He will deny it."

"He will. I know that. I don't expect him to confess to anything, even the things we know he did. We just need him to reveal the location of some people."

"The bastard and the heir?"

"Exactly."

Shadrich returned then. He should have been quicker, really. It wasn't that far from this room to the dungeons. He gave it little mind. Baelish likely did not come willingly. It must have taken time to coax him out of his cell.

Yohn Royce was the lord stood nearest the chair here, with Nestor pacing behind him, Andar seated in his own chair, and Templeton slouched against the wall again, although he had moved around now to be next to a large bookcase.

Shadrich walked into the room holding Baelish by the scruff of the neck. The former Master of Coin had fallen far.

Jaime remembered him from King's Landing as wearing fine clothes, embroidered silks and finest fabrics. Now he wore rags, and smelled even worse than Grafton had. This drop in political power had not served Littlefinger well at all.

Yohn Royce looked down at the little lord disparagingly for a few seconds, before he began his questioning. He clearly took joy in seeing Baelish this way, there was some sort of perverse glee in the eyes of the new Lord.

"Your girl, Baelish. What was her name? Alana? Asha?"

"Alayne, your grace."

"Ah yes, Alayne Stone. That was the name, yes? She was your bastard. Who did you say was the girl's mother."

"One of the serving wenches in my castle..."

Littlefinger's voice had gone raspy as a result of his imprisonment. The easy arrogance that he had used to carry was gone. All Jaime could think was that Renly Baratheon would have laughed at the sight, but he wasn't sure why Robert's brother was stuck in his head.

"That is a lie. I had Lords Coldwater and Pryor take half their forces to your castle. None of the servants questioned talked about your bastard girl. Surely, if one of them was the mother, they would remember her."

That caused Baelish to scowl, but it looked like it was partly because he was in some sort of pain. Jaime had been in Littlefinger's position when the Brave Companions had taken him. He did not envy the man.

"The mother died..."

"That is awfully convenient."

"It's a shame that it is a lie, cousin. The girl was not mothered by any woman on the Fingers."

"You think she was fathered by Lysa too?"

"No. I think Baelish was foolish to think I would not recognise the girl for who she really was. It has been a while since I saw her, but I would not easily forget the girl that followed Waymar around the corridors of Winterfell."

"Father?"

"The girl is Sansa Stark, is she not, Baelish?"

"Alayne is my bastard-"

Yohn Royce hit him across the face then, causing the chair to fall down and Baelish to recoil. There was blood on his face when he was picked up by Nestor.

"The Stark girl vanished the same day that you were taken prisoner. My son has dispatched four of our finest knights to find her. She has gone with Lothor Brune and the bastard, yes?"

"I wouldn't know."

"They won't escape the Vale. The High Road is all but blocked off, and Donnel Waynwood has blocked the Bloody Gate. The Tarth maid was the last person that will be passing through it until the end of winter."

"Cousin, Mya Stone knows the mountains better than anyone. If anyone can find a way past the Bloody Gate then it is her. Mychel Redfort sent a raven saying that he was following them over the mountains."

"So they are heading east, not north?"

"That is what Mychel believed."

"So Brune isn't taking Stark to Winterfell. Where else would they be going? Riverrun is a Frey castle."

"With respect, cousin, we also received a raven from Riverrun. Edmure Tully claims his ancestral right over the Trident. He names himself King of Rivers, and declares war on Houses Lannister, Baratheon, Bolton and Frey."

"If the Stark girl were to find out about her uncle taking the castle..."

"Then that is where she would head. How should we cut her off."

"First I have need for you to send a raven, cousin. It must fly swiftly."

Yohn pulled a scrap of paper from his clothes and quickly scribbled a note down on it with a quill taken from the room's desk. He handed it to his cousin.

"Give this to Helliweg, cousin. Tell him to send it immeadiately. It must arrive before the Stark girl."

"As you say."

Nestor Royce left then. Jaime couldn't help but notice that all three Royces held themselves in good posture. They were an old family, he knew that, and Yohn was a renowned warrior, but beyond that he knew little. He did notice that Nestor Royce's cloak was held together by a clasp in the shape of a white tree.

"We must send a raven to Lord Edmure too. Tell him that the girl that comes to him is not Sansa Stark. He cannot think that she is his niece."

"Why, your grace?"

"Because, Templeton, then we will never get her back. Sansa Stark has claims on the North and the Riverlands. With her we can expand the Kingdom of the Vale significantly."

"I see."

"You will go to Maester Colemon. Have him send a raven to Riverrun telling him that Baelish's bastard is travelling to him with a hedgeknight and another bastard. She will claim to be Sansa Stark, but that is a lie. We offer a trade for the girl. If she is returned to us, via ship from Maidenpool to Gulltown, then we will return three of his knights."

"We don't have three knights to return, your grace."

"But we do, Templeton. We have both the brothers Wode in our prisons. Lady Lysa had them seized for some minor offense at the start of the war. We will offer them back."

"That is still only two men..."

Yohn Royce turned to Jaime then, a smile on his lined face.

"Ah, but we do have another. House Roote are from the Riverlands, yes?"

He had not expected to be talked to during this meeting.

"Y-Yes, your grace. We are not an old house, and I am no knight."

"Kneel before me."

"Your grace?"

"I said kneel."

He did as he was instructed, and felt the cold touch of Lady Forlorn on his shoulders. This was the sword that had broken Brienne's Oathkeeper. Broken oaths... He knew a thing or two about those now.

"I name you Ser Jammos Roote, Knight of the Vale and the Riverlands. Rise, and do the bidding of your king."

He did as he was told, and found Yohn and Templeton stood before him.

"You will travel to Riverrun with the Wode brothers. When you get there, you will see that Sansa Stark is returned to me. In return I will see that you are rewarded with a lordship. We have land near Heart's Home that could be yours, or Gulltown, if you prefer."

He was offering him a lordship? He could deliver Sansa to Yohn Royce, saving her from danger, as Catelyn had wanted, and then disappear from sight. Nobody would be able to find him then, not Cersei, not Tyrion, not his father...

"As you say, your grace."

"You will take the Hunt knight as well, and his squire. They were Lannister men. I do not trust them at all."

"Yes, your grace."

"Go now, leave us. The Wode brothers are in the cells. See Maester Helliweg and he will arrange your transport."

He nodded at that and left Shadrich alone with the gathered nobles. If Yohn Royce knew who he really was then he would never have let him leave. Instead he would be in a cell with Baelish and Grafton.

The corridors of the Gates of the Moon were full of more noise than they had been before. The people of the Vale were happy now Baelish was ousted. The bell knight, Marwyn Belmore, was training little lord Arryn in the main courtyard, with several other knights gathered around. The sickly boy could barely hold a sword.

"You! Roote! Stop!"

When he turned he saw that Ser Andar had followed him out of the room. There was a look of anger on his face. Jaime wasn't sure what he had done to upset the man so.

"My father trusts you, you would agree?"

Jaime disliked the question. He had been hoping to get away from the Gates of the Moon without any more dealing with people like Andar and Shadrich.

"It would seem that way."

Andar smiled at that. It was a fake smile, and an unconvincing one too. Smiles weren't easy on this man's face, it seemed. He wasn't a happy man.

"Well, Ser Jammos, I do not. You came here with Brienne of Tarth, yes? Ser Donnel Waynwood said you passed through the Bloody Gate together."

"I did."

"She lied about her identity. Makes me wonder if her companions did too."

"Why not raise this worry with your father. There isn't much I can do about anything."

"I did. He disagrees with me."

"He is the king. If you go against him then you may as well stab him in the back."

"Then I would be a Kingslayer, Ser Jammos. They are the most accursed of knights."

Jaime looked into the man's eyes. Was there a glint there? Did he know? How could he know?

"I have decided to reinforce your entourage with some men. Ser Androw Tollett, Ser Jon Redfort, Ser Marwyn Belmore, Ser Artys Egen, and Ser Marlon Sunderland will be accompanying you to... make sure that you arrive safely."

Jaime nodded.

"If that is what you think is best, my lord."

"It is."

Andar snapped back at him. There were some insecurities beneath the strong armour that he put up. He didn't like to be questioned. Jaime knew better than to push him, however. The Royces were powerful, and this one would have been trained by Sam Stone, the best fighter the Vale had to offer.

"Leave, then. Fetch your prisoners and leave."

He bent his head to the Prince of the Vale. One day he would be king. When Yohn Royce eventually died. Jaime suspected that the Royces hold on the Vale might end there.

He walked away thinking to himself.

If Andar knew who he was, then why be so willing to let him go? Was he counting on Jaime returning to him? Did he just want rid of him, and why would Yohn Royce disagree with his son on this?

It was a problem worth thinking about.


	25. Melisandre

She stared at the flames as they licked around the wood in her hearth. The Seaworth boy stood at the entrance to her tent, standing guard, protecting her from the cold clutches of winter and everything that it brought with it. The monsters and ghouls in the darkness, servants of the Great Other. They clamoured around him, they called for her soul, they threatened to hurt her.

She saw one of them whenever she looked into the flames now. An old man sat on a wooden throne. He blocked her from seeing the truth. He blocked her from seeing Stannis, or Jon Snow, or even Davos Seaworth. Their fates were unknown to her, all because of this accursed servant of darkness.

There was another, one closer to her, one that she could hear when she slept, one that she thought that they had lost, nae, wished that they had lost. The fool.

When they left the Nightfort under the orders of the sly traitor that had killed Jon Snow, the fool had been nowhere to be found. Little Shireen had cried at the loss of her friend, but Melisandre had let out a sigh of relief. The fool scared her. His songs and his visions were those of darkness, those of death. He saw the Great Other, and he sang for him.

"Where do crows go when they find themselves dead... I know, I know... I know, I know... Where do wolves howl whence they lose their heads... I know, I know... oooooh I know."

Those had been the words that he had sang when he returned to them along the Kingsroad south. He had appeared from nowhere, dancing through the thicket of trees that they passed through, like a ghost on the wind, the breath of darkness and winter still upon every word that he sang.

"Where does the kraken go when waters freeze... I know, I know... Where does the lion escape from the heat... I know, I know..."

His voice haunted her every waking moment. It was all that she could think about. Something about the way that he sang had changed. It was more definite, as if he knew what was coming better than she did. As if he could see the deaths of those he talked of.

"When the shadows come to dance... When the shadows come to play... The traitor dies in a king's name... When the shadows come to play..."

That had been what he sang at last night's dinner, dancing behind the little princess as the Red Woman tried to sup with Queen Selyse and her lord uncle.

"The fool grows more and more intolerable by the day. I do hope your husband doesn't intend to keep him around when he takes King's Landing."

Those had been the words of the old man.

"Shireen likes him. Whilst she is young he should stay. She might get lonely without him."

"She relies on the fool too much. Let her spend time with young lords and ladies. Jon Umber had a granddaughter her age, if I recall."

"Jon Umber is in a Frey cell. We are not welcome at Last Hearth. They are a half family of traitors, remember, uncle?"

"Aye, I recall your opinions on the Umber men."

"Not just their men. If I had my way then my husband would have marched on their castle and extinguished their line, as an example to the North. It was that wretched bastard that convinced him otherwise."

It had been Jon Snow, hadn't it? It had been he that stood up to Stannis, and he that gave him an army in the men of the mountains. Snow, that was what the flames had shown her. She had been wrong. It hadn't been him, it hadn't been Stannis.

The flames tickled her fingers as she reached out to them, desperate to absorb whatever it was that they were trying to tell her. Why couldn't she see? What was it that they didn't want her to know? Had she let herself down by being wrong about the Snow boy? Was that it?

"Under the water dead men sing... Under the water dead men come... Through the weeds and through the seas... Under the water they ride..."

The fool was singing again. It was another nonsense song, no doubt. But still the words chilled her to the bone. The dead men sing? What could he mean? There was blood and darkness on the lips of this child. Blood and darkness that would come back to harm them all, no matter how much Axell Florent lamented it.

Then she saw something. At long last the flames showed her. She couldn't quite make out what it was. A large man crouched over the body of a small child. Then there was a woman stood at the prow of a ship, looking out at lightning crashing down on a thrashing sea. The last vision was more chilling.

A blotchy faced boy stood in between two bone white trees, his lips wet and his nose broad. The chilling thing about him was his eyes. They were like little chips of ice in the middle of his face. Eyes of winter and eyes of cold. Eyes of darkness. He was coming. He was coming. He was coming.

She rose from her crouched position then, but the sight of the boy's cold eyes on her didn't leave. It was almost as if... Had he seen her? Had he been watching her back? How was that... Was he... They had to move.

He was coming.

"Seaworth!"

She called out to the boy at the entrance to her tent, and he stepped in almost straight away. He had clearly been waiting to be called.

"Send for Queen Selyse and Lord Axell, as well as for Ser Brus and Benethon. We should have knights here too."

The boy nodded to her, and waited for a few seconds before leaving. He was half in love with her, she knew that. His father would most definitely not approve. She worried for Lord Davos, even if he did not do likewise for her. The man was important to Stannis. Stannis needed him. Davos Seaworth had a role left to play, she had seen it in the flames. The flames never lied to her.

The last she had seen of him he had been on a ship, cutting swiftly through the waves to try and outrun a storm. That had been two weeks ago, before they left the Wall. After the Karstark girl's wedding to the wildling. Since then, her visions of the Onion Knight had been blocked, which was of little concern to the queen and her father. Neither wanted him to live.

They saw the man as an upstart and a fraud. Maybe he was, maybe he was jumped up from where he should be. It was he that had brought Stannis to the Wall, he who had saved the crows, not Axell. It was he that Stannis had chosen as his Hand and his conscience. No, Ser Davos was of more importance to Stannis' cause than old Axell.

The two knights arrived first, as she had expected. The queen had made a habit of arriving late when she was summoned to places, as she believed that it was the queen who should do the summoning. Her uncle would be with her, of course.

Ser Benethon was the first of the men to arrive. Benethon had been born and raised on Dragonstone, back when the Mad King had ruled. He was in his forties, but still in good shape, with blonde stubble around his chin, and a lined, and weathered face. He carried his family's ancestral sword, Throatcutter. It was no Valyrian sword, and little better than ordinary steel, but he cared for the blade.

Ser Brus Buckler was everything that Benethon was not. He had been raised in a castle as the nephew of a lord, had received martial training from a young age, and had grown fat with the luxuries that he had been afforded. Their stay at Eastwatch and the Nightfort had certainly been taxing on him. His hair was bronze, and he was clean shaven.

Both had been followers of the Andal gods before she arrived, now they, along with Farring, were her most devoted knights. They looked into the flames with her many a night, but they saw little. This always disappointed them.

"You called for us, Lady Melisandre?"

That was Brus talking, in a voice that was slow and thick, like honey, but less sweet. He was not a bright man, but he was a pious one.

"I called for the Queen and Lord Axell, too, Sers. You may sit."

Neither of them did. Benethon was a man that preferred to stand, Brus she was more confused about. She was so distracted by the two knights that she didn't spot that Devan Seaworth had returned with them. He was the only one that sat. He chose a spot by her fire, and stared into the flames.

It was a few minutes more before Selyse Baratheon and Axell Florent graced them with their presence. The two of them had stern faces, which she thought was unusual. It was not often that Axell didn't come across as jolly. He usually wore a smile on his face, but not today. Today he resembled his niece more than he did himself.

Selyse's face was pinched and harsh, with an edged chin and a sharp nose. Her eyes were pale, and there was the thinnest line of hair on her top lip. Her voice was indignant when she spoke.

"You called for us?"

"I did, my queen. I have seen something in the flames."

It was Axell that spoke next. His voice was stern too.

"And what, pray tell, did you see?"

"I saw a boy."

There was silence for a few seconds, then Axell spoke once again.

"You called us here to tell us that you have seen a boy? What reason do you possibly have for thinking that this is urgent news."

She could hear the fool in the distance, singing about shadows and stags, dancing with Princess Shireen, no doubt.

"His eyes, Lord Florent. His eyes were as cold as ice and he saw me through the flames. He is coming. I don't know who he is, but he is coming."

"You are scared of a boy? Is he a pawn of the Great Other? Why would he coming here? We are only a few days from my husband's camp. We are safe here."

Melisandre wasn't as sure. She had seen the smile on that boy's face. He had darkness in his soul, and he was definitely coming. It was as Axell Florent started talking again that she heard something else.

Silence outside.

The fool had stopped singing.

Then there were cries and calls of terror. She could hear the sound of steel on steel outside. Three men stepped into the tent, all dressed in rags with chinked swords drawn. They were all dirty.

One of them charged at Ser Benethon, a smile on his face as he did. Melisandre could make out his rotted teeth. Benethon could barely move his hand to his sword before he was sent flying. Buckler had a worse fate, beheaded by one of the other men. It was Axell Florent who, in a braver act than she had ever seen from the man, stood between the intruders and her, his niece and Devan. He was unarmed.

"Stand aside, old man. Let us get at the women folk."

That was the last of the three speaking. He had fair hair and a boyish grin. He was younger than the others. He may even have been comely, had it not been for the soiled clothes and stench.

"Skinner and Alyn can share the pinched one. I will try my turn in the arse of the other."

"Is this the boy you saw, my lady?"

There was evil in the eyes of this boy, but a man's evil, not that which she had seen in the other's eyes. His had been cold like winter. This newcomer's were brown, like the bark of the trees of the Wolfswood.

"Do I need to tell you to stand aside again, old man?"

The three of them had gathered again, a few feet in front of Axell.

"I am Lord Axell Florent, Hand of the Queen to Selyse Florent, rightful Queen of the Iron Throne-"

"The ugly bitch is a queen? Mayhaps Skinner or Alyn can give her little, royal bastards that she can raise speaking all the right way."

"Stand off them, Damon."

The one called Damon looked behind him, and then moved aside. Melisandre tried to choke back her shock when she saw the man standing in the entrance to the tent. It was the boy from the flames. He was fleshy and broad, with blotched cheeks, and the same ice cold eyes.

He wore a jerkin of pink. It was cleaner than what his companions were wearing, which suggested that he was their leader. The fair haired one clearly didn't want to get on his wrong side.

"As you say, Lord Bolton."

There was something wrong with that. Stannis had told her that Roose Bolton was a tried and tested battle commander, not a young boy. She had seen Bolton in the flames when she had asked. This must be his son. Axell Florent reached the same conclusion alongside her.

"The bastard?"

That comment didn't go down at all well. The boy charged at the man and knocked him to the floor with a shoulder and elbow to the chest. Axell ended up on the ground, wheezing from the attack. His assailant crouched down next to him.

"That would be Lord Ramsay Bolton, to you. I am the trueborn scion of House Bolton, the heir of Lord Roose Bolton, Warden of the North. You are my prisoners. Who are you?"

"I am... Lord Axell-"

That comment saw Axell Florent take a kick in the stomach.

"I said, who are you?"

Axell spit blood out on the ground before he spoke again.

"I am your prisoner."

"Excellent."

Ramsay Bolton rose from his interrogation of the old man that now lay at his feet. Axell did not look well for wear, yet none of the gathered men rushed to his aid.

"Grunt! Bring me the girl!"

Another dirty man stepped into the room then. This one was taller than the others. He had two prominent scars on his face, both faded with age. He wore the same dirty rags as the lesser companions. There were chains around his neck, and he grunted as he moved. His back was bent, and his arm bent around to hold it.

Under his other arm was the squirming form of a little girl. Melisandre knew at once that it was the little princess. What had happened to her guards? Had they been caught off guard as Ser Benethon and Ser Brus had been? Were they dead too?

"Hand me my daughter!"

Selyse stepped forward, and Lord Bolton turned his chilling eyes onto her, instead of the new arrival and the little princess.

"I don't think so, traitor queen. I think the girl will serve a good purpose as a warning to those of your companions that survived. I don't see any of them living very long, but at least we can give them a spectacle first."

He turned away from the queen and back to his men.

"Grunt, Alyn, Skinner. Take the girl. Fuck her in front of the other prisoners. This will be her first time. Make sure she has fun, she is royalty, after all."

A wicked smile came onto the face of the one with rotting teeth. Melisandre could smell his foul breath from here. It was like a cross of sour milk and raw meat.

"As you say, Lord Ramsay. She will be treated with all the courtesy that we possess."

The three of them left the tent then, leaving the fair haired youth as the only man backing up the one who called himself Lord Bolton. Had Stannis mentioned Roose Bolton's bastard to her? He had called the boy a vile upstart and a symbol of a bygone time in the history of the Boltons.

"How could you do this? She is the daughter of the king!"

Ramsay put his finger up at that.

"Wrong, traitor queen. She is the cousin of the king, and she has been declared an enemy of the realm. Plus, my men need rewarding for their loyal service. Giving them you would hardly seem a fitting reward, you ugly bitch."

Ramsay walked around the tent, looking around, before stopping and staring at the fire. A smirk passed over his face as he did.

"So this is where Stannis' famous red witch see premonitions of the future. Sounds like she could have done with looking a bit harder this morning."

That caused a laugh from Damon. He had a sing song laugh. It didn't fit his person.

He walked over to the desk and chair that Stannis had given her, seating himself in the fine wood. It had been a gift for her before they left Dragonstone, bought from the Temple to R'hllor in Volantis. She disliked seeing this boy seated in it. He seemed out of place, as if this was designed as an insult to her god.

"Damon, bring me the boy."

Damon grabbed Devan Seaworth by the shoulder. Selyse didn't move to protect him as she had her daughter. Why should she? This was the son of Davos Seaworth. She cared little for the smuggler.

"Please. Lady Melisandre! Queen Selyse! Please!"

The queen's silence was stoney, and there was nothing that Melisandre could do here either. She had to wait and see what cruel fate this psychopath had in mind for such a young boy. Would he give the boy to Damon? Would he take the boy himself? Devan was slight, as his father. She wasn't sure he could take whatever this man had in store for him.

"You're the traitor Hand's whelp, are you not, boy? Davan Seaworth, was it?"

The boy snivelled at that and muttered something under his breath.

"What was that, boy?"

"Devan. My name is Devan."

Ramsay smiled at that. It was an ugly smile. His lips were too thick and fleshy, and his cheeks too blotchy.

"Devan... Devan... I don't like the name, unfortunately. We might have to change it when we get back to the Dreadfort."

This threat seemed to mean more to Damon than it did to them. The fair haired man guffawed at the comment from Ramsay. Lord Bolton had to shoot him a glance to make him be silent once again.

"I lost a pet recently, Devan. Did you have a pet wherever your father raised you? Don't answer that. I don't care. The point is, I need a new pet. I can't decide who it should be. My last pet was a lot like you. His father was an upjumped lord too. Should I stick with what I like, or should I try something... new."

Devan didn't answer, preferring to stay in silence, staring down at his hands. Damon grabbed him by his brown hair and yanked him so that he was facing Ramsay.

"You're a boring boy, Davan Seaworth. I don't think you will be my next pet."

Devan let out a sigh of relief, causing Ramsay to smack him across the face.

"Being a pet to the Lord of Winterfell and the trueborn scion of the Dreadfort should be an honour, boy! Reek saw it as such!"

The boy had lost his temper. His eyes remained as cold as they were before, but now his face was even more flushed than it had been before. He drew a dagger from his belt.

"Your father is the traitor king's Hand, yes? He is the knight of cut fingers? He has the gold pin that they give to Hands, yes?"

He was behind Devan now. Damon had made way. Devan was crying, but not loudly. He was trying to be brave. Ramsay pushed him from the back, slamming the side of his face down against the desk.

"Maybe you can ask your father for his golden hand to replace the one you lose today."

The knife moved through the air quicker than any of their eyes could follow. There was a thud as it hit the desk, then a few seconds of Devan sobbing, before those sobs turned into screams. Ramsay and Damon laughed at the boy's pain. The rest of them looked on with shock. A maester rushed in.

"I- I heard screaming, Lord Bolton. Is there anything I can do?"

"Yes, Medrick. Take the boy and bandage his stump. Makes sure that he lives. My father will be most disappointed if he doesn't, and you know what that means for you."

The maester nodded silently, and took the boy by the shoulder and led him out. Devan was still sobbing and wailing. He was only a boy, and this reinforced that. Ramsay Bolton had destroyed the young boy's life.

"The Maester disapproves of you, my lord."

"Ever since my dearest first wife bit her own fingers off, I know. The people of Hornwood don't seem to appreciate the generosity that I show them."

Ramsay then walked back over to them. His knife was dirtied with Devan's blood, but he didn't sheath it. Instead he held it threateningly, reminding them that he wasn't done, that there was more pain for him to deal out here. He bent down next to Axell.

"You didn't cry over the boy, my lord. Do you not care for him? It would be cruel to just let the boy hurt and not heal the truth. Would your lord of light approve of such callousness?"

"The boy... The boy means little to me."

"Then maybe I should help you understand the pain that he is currently feeling. Put your hand out, prisoner."

"No... Please..."

Axell was kicked in the stomach for a second time. Ramsay knelt back down.

"Was I asking you? Put your hand out."

Axell's hands were shaky as he put his left hand out in front of him. He tried to hold back the sobs, not wanting to sound like Devan had before Ramsay took his. He failed, and all that happened was that the sobs were slightly muffled. Ramsay smiled at this pain.

"I'm going to do it now. Prepare yourself, prisoner."

Axell straightened his back and prepared. Ramsay's hands were quicker than her eyes. She didn't even see him move, but in seconds Axell had his hands by the right side of his head, and he screamed as Devan had. His Florent ear lay on the floor next to him, and blood poured out of the side of his head.

"Damon, get Medrick. This man is dying. He needs a Maester to look after him."

The fair haired boy left them, laughing as he did. Axell whimpered on the floor, and Selyse knelt by his side, whispering and crying too. Melisandre didn't remember when she last saw the queen cry. She hadn't when Stannis left for Castle Black, she hadn't when her uncle burned to death.

The maester came, and took Axell away as he had done Devan. Ramsay forbade him from sewing the war back on, saying that he wanted his prisoner to keep it as a memento of their time together, so that Axell would always remember what pain felt like.

"Now, that leaves just the three of us, then. The traitor queen, her red witch and the scion to the Dreadfort. My father has asked for both of you alive, but I don't know whether I can fulfill those wishes. I have plans for both of you."

Ramsay went to Selyse first, putting his right hand underneath her chin, and jerking her head upwards.

"You really are an ugly bitch, aren't you? I wondered why I was told that Stannis Baratheon hated his wife, and now I see it. He probably just couldn't get hard looking at you. Your mustache probably put him off."

"I am the que-"

Selyse was sent flying by Ramsay, as he slapped her across the face. The sound of the crack rang around the tent. He then drove his right boot into her stomach.

"You are nothing worth talking about here. I would give you as an object for my men to rape, but I think they would prefer to have your little daughter for now."

He then moved onto her. She stared into his eyes, hers flashing like flames, his as cold as the winter that he served. She could see them clearer now. They were ice and cold and in them was hatred, but there was something else. Was it fear? Doubt? Something plagued this boy, something important.

"Now, you. You make me understand why he would rather fuck you than her."

His tongue flashed out of his mouth for the briefest of seconds as he moistened his lips.

"I would fuck you here and now, but I have bigger plans for you. You heard me tell the boy that I recently lost a pet, yes? I had two pets before that one. I want you to be my fourth. I've never had a girl before. Maybe the hounds will appreciate you more than they did my last Reek."

He laughed at that, and then quickly grabbed her by the shawl, pulling it from her and revealing her body to the cold. She was kept warm by the Lord of Light, but still she felt a chill in the presence of her kidnapper.

He pressed himself close to her. She could smell his breath as he breathed heavily upon her. She felt his hands on her ass, squeezing and adventuring as he wet his lips once more.

"Yes, I will definitley be glad to have you around my castle."

That was when Damon returned, a smile on his face as he saw his lord pressed against her.

"They are ready for you outside, my lord."

"Excellent. I have quite the treat for them. Come, Reek. We walk now. No, no. Leave your clothes there. That's good."

She walked in front of him, and could feel his breath on her back as she walked out into the cold snows of the North. She hadn't been prepared for what she saw.

There were bodies laid around the camp. Various knights that had stood against the attack. She saw the two Night's Watch men that Bowen Marsh had given them. They were dead. She saw Perkin Follard and Dorden the Dour. She saw Lambert Whitewater and Malegorn. They had been killed, all of them.

Any of the survivors had been herded into a wooden cart. Devan was there, as was Axell. They watched her as she walked, bare naked and with Ramsay's hands on her thighs. The Bolton men called out to her. She saw one man pull out his genitalia.

nearby to the wagon was a large pile of wood. Her men had built it, for that night's fire. She wondered how many of those men had lived. Not many, she imagined.

The little princess was naked when they brought her forth. Her thighs were raw and there was still blood from where her virginity had been taken. She cried as Alyn brought her forward, and as Skinner tied her to the pyre.

"Did you enjoy her?"

Ramsay called to his men, loud enough so that the queen could hear. She was being held back by Damon, who had removed her clothes too. Melisandre pitied Selyse. The Lord of Light did not warm her. She would be cold, standing naked in the biting Northern wind.

"Aye. She squirmed a lot at first, when we first entered her. i think she enjoyed it somewhat by the time that it was done, my lord."

"It was her first time? She hadn't even had it from the smuggler's whelp?"

"She was tight. 'twas her first, my lord."

"And her last, unfortunately. At least she got to try it first. Here that, traitor queen? Your daughter pleased my men very well. You should be so proud of her."

The one that Ramsay had called Grunt came forward then, carrying a large stick with a flame on the end. He used it to light the fire beneath the little princess's feet. The girl wept at the heat, and screamed at the pain. She called for Ser Davos, for her mother, for her father, but none of them would come for her. The men laughed as she wailed. Ramsay didn't. He only smiled his ugly smile, and then he whispered something to Melisandre as he watched the girl burn.

"You have done this more times than I, Reek. Tell me, flesh melts when it burns. Does stone flesh melt too?"


	26. Asha II

She stood at the prow of her ship, and looked out at the calm sea. The sound of sailing came from behind her, with instructions being called out. The ship cut through the small waves that lay before it, and she tried to concentrate on what was in front of her, not what was behind. They were half a day from Lordsport, having sailed around in a curve, so that they could come at the Botley and Ironmaker ships head on. She knew that her husband and Germund would be her opposition because of what they had found on Harlaw.

She had decided to take her ships to Blacktyde first, where she had found very little. Baelor Blacktyde had left a five year old son as the new lord, with his uncle, Blind Beron, as his advisor. Beron had spoken with her, but all he could tell her was that her nuncle was still missing. Nobody had seen Aeron since the Kingsmoot, or not to his knowledge. Her other nuncles had gone south to fight greenlanders and take their islands from them. They had taken ten Blacktyde ships with them, and most of the island's able bodied men.

She had found similar when she docked at Volmark. Young Maron was away, reaving with Euron in the south, and had left his uncle as castellan. It was his mother's brother, and his mother had been no highborn. She had been allowed access to the castle, but the man could tell her little more than Beron had. The only new news here was that Maron had been given a southern island, and that her last nuncle was sailing around the world on his brother's whim. Asha had never thought Victarion to be so weak that he would serve as the dog of a man that he hated.

She had gone to other castles on Harlaw, asking for news. She had been denied entry at the Tower of Glimmering, and Qarl Kenning had only agreed to meet her under the cover of dusk.

Sigfry Stonetree had happily welcomed her, and told her that Euron had taken the Arbor from the lord's castellan, but that the Redwyne fleet was descending on him. He also told her that her nuncle Rodrik had left old Sigfryd Harlaw, whilst Harras, Hotho and Boremund had all gone south with him.

She liked Harras and Boremund. They were both good men. Harras was a proper Ironborn warrior, no matter whether he used a Greenlander title. He was of the salt and the rock. He was her nuncle's heir, and would make a good Lord of Harlaw.

Stonetree had been the last castle that they stopped at before arriving at the Harlaw castle of Ten Towers. The sprawling castle was larger than any of the other settlements built on the island. Only Pyke and the Hammerhorn stood bigger in the Iron Islands. Underneath the eastern wall of the castle a small town had risen. The locals called it Rodrikston, after her nuncle, who had put the Harlaw money into the construction of the buildings, and had helped secure trade for the workers in Seagard, Lannisport and Oldtown.

The ten towers of Harlaw that gave the castle it's name loomed over them. There was the widow's tower, the one nearest to the crashing sea, then the boom tower and then the cliff tower, which served as the barracks of the castle, where the Harlaw guards slept and trained.

There had been no party waiting for her and her men at the quay. She had left Clayton Suggs and Alysane Mormont with the ships. Neither would be welcomed in the castle. The Mormonts and the Ironborn had never been fast friends.

Clayton had insisted that a knight should go with her, and she had chosen William Foxglove, who reminded her more of Justin Massey. He had been eager to help learn the ways of the Ironborn when they set sail, where Suggs had spent half his time below the decks, and the other half heaving over the side of the ship. This had become a source of mockery for the Ironborn that had come with her.

Foxglove was a good man, if a delusional one. He hadn't embraced the Drowned God, and he still held his fire god as all powerful, but he treated the Ironborn with more respect than his companion. Suggs was blissfully unaware of the way that Ironborn talked about him.

She had left Stannis Baratheon's camp with three of her Ironborn. She had been given Rustbeard and Grimtongue, as well as Tris Botley. They had told her that the other two prisoners were Fingers and Qarl. They had also told her that Eerl Harlaw, Hinga the Horn and Six Toed Harl were being kept at Deepwood Motte by Sybelle Glover. The price that Sybelle would offer for her children, Asha suspected.

They had passed by many abandoned Northern holdfasts on their journey south, and had found one or two inhabited by vile smelling Northmen. William Foxglove had driven most of these men away, until they came to the sixth, and Tris recognised the banner of Botley over the gate.

Inside they had found Tris' brother Symond and uncle Lucimore, who had been amongst the reavers that had sailed with Dagmer Cleftjaw. They revealed that Cleftjaw had separated the Botley forces into two and had taken two holdfasts, with the Merlyn forces, under the command of the Merlyn's son and heir, had taken another.

Symond and Tris were very similar. Where their elder brother had been a warrior and a fighter, they preferred the histories of the Ironborn to the reaving culture. Tris was more a girl than she, but she also remembered seeing him fight near Deepwood Motte. He had been better with a sword than she had thought.

Symond stood a few inches shorter than Tris, but with a long, matted beard of brown hair, where Tris was clean shaven. Lucimore was unlike both of them. A large brute of a man, with a fierce appearance and wild eyes. He stood as tall as Grimtongue, at the very least, and with broader shoulders and thicker arms. He was certainly not as weak as Asha remembered Sawane Botley being.

He had told Asha that he desired more than anything else to return home and take back Lordsport in his brother's name. It reminded her that she wasn't the only one among her company to have a reason to hate their uncle. Germund Botley had given Tris a reason to hate him. Maybe together they could end two backstabbing uncles.

The two Botleys had ridden with them to another holdfast, where they had found another of Tris' uncles and brothers. Sargon Botley was shorter than his brother, but more well built than any of his nephews, who had inherited Sawane Botley's thin frame, as opposed to their uncle's bulky appearance.

Vickon Botley was much younger than Tris. He was barely a man. This was his first reaving away from home. He was handsome though, like Tris, but more excitable and with thicker arms. He had inherited those from his uncles, at the very least.

The four Botleys joined them on their travels south then, insisting that they should stop off at Torrhen's Square, where they said an ally was waiting for them. She was unsure who they meant.

When they arrived she knew. She had never been so happy to see the broken banner of House Greyjoy that Dagmer Cleftjaw had taken as his sigil.

The imposing man had come to meet them himself, and she rode out with a select few of her men. Lucimore and Sargon carried her banners, the golden kraken of Greyjoy, whilst Foxglove carried the stag of Stannis. With her also came Tris and Symond. She left Vickon and Grimtongue in command of the Botley and Baratheon troops, with Corliss sleeping his drunkenness off.

Dagmer Cleftjaw looked no different than he had when last she had seen him. That had been just before Theon set sail. He had come to see her to wish her luck and reminded her to keep faith in the Drowned God. She had looked for him at the Kingsmoot, but he had claimed to be staying loyal to Balon. She hadn't been sure if he would receive her well. She had no reason to be concerned.

"Little niece!"

Dagmer rushed out to her and pulled her from her horse. She let him cradle her in his arms for a few moments. She had missed his embrace. He had been a shoulder to cry on when she was a child, but she was a child no more. The man knew that.

"Not so little now. Battle hardened and paying the iron price all herself. You come with Lucimore and Sargon? I had them out to look for you. I thought maybe you would pass this way with your brother."

Of course. Dagmer had loved Theon like his own. It had hurt the man when he had been taken away to Winterfell. At the time she had thought that Dagmer had cared for her brother more than her father. He would hate to see what Theon had become. Woe betide this Ramsay Snow if Dagmer Cleftjaw ever had him at his mercy.

"Theon could not come with me, uncle. He has other business to do with Stannis Baratheon."

That caused a cloud of darkness to descend onto Cleftjaw's broken face. He was a scary looking man if you did not know him, and she could hear William Foxglove moving his hand towards his sword behind her. He was scared.

"I am aware of this king and his business. We had raven from Winterfell. Little Theon is dead. Burned alive."

She couldn't believe it. She had suspected that it would be true in her heart of hearts. Stannis couldn't have justified keeping her little brother alive. It was then that Asha wanted to cry for her brother, she wanted to hug Dagmer and bury her face in his beard. She was Ironborn, but it was here that she just wanted to be a girl. She had to control herself.

She hadn't known Theon for almost all of his life. He had grown up away from her, him as a greenlander and her as Ironborn. She had learned to pay the iron price, yet now all she wanted was to take the men that Stannis had given them and give them in turn to the Drowned God. Theon was gone.

"'Twas little Theon that sent me here. I have no need for this castle any more. I will lower my flag and follow you back home, little Princess. Back home to Pyke."

She had been relieved to hear him say that. She had lost so much of her family recently. Her father, her cousins, her nuncles, her brother. She was happy to have her uncle return to the Iron Islands with her. They could sail against Euron together, and together they could destroy him.

Dagmer had left Torrhen's Square the next day, wishing farewell to the little Lady Tallhart. The brutish Ironborn warrior was soft at heart, and he loved young children. He had cared for the girl, and the girl had clearly grown not to be scared of her captor. Dagmer brought a Tallhart with him on their journey. The boy went by the name of Beren, and he sailed with the She Bear. Asha wasn't sure why he had chosen to come with them to Pyke.

They had carried on their journey south, passing nearby to Barrowton and then again past another holdfast. Soon they could hear the sea, and she had urged her mare into a gallop.

She reached the edge of the cliff with Dagmer and Tris at her back, then came Sargon and Grimtongue, with Vickon, Symond, Rustbeard and Lucimore the last of her Ironborn leaders. The She-Bear had not been far behind them. She had missed the smell of the saltwater and the sight of the broiling waves as they smashed against the rocks.

It took too long for them to make the descent down a narrow path along the cliffface. Tallhart went first, as he knew the path better than others, and she followed, with Dagmer and Sargon behind her. They could have two horses abreast at the thinnest sections, with three alongside each other when they got wider. At the bottom she found herself with Sargon and Vickon, as they waited for Dagmer, Lucimore, and Alysane to get the Botley, Merlyn and Greyjoy ships over to the coast.

She had never spent much time alone with Sargon Botley, but when she looked at him now she could see that, beneath his shaggy beard, he looked a lot like Tris. He was handsome and had the same large eyes.

The rest of the Ironborn had dismounted their horses and rushed to the water once they arrived on the small inlet. She saw Rustbeard washing out his beard with it, whilst two of the Botley men had stripped themselves of armour and dived in. Here the water was serene, further down the cliffs it smashed against the rock. She would have jumped in too, but she had to seem more restrained than her men.

She saw William Foxglove walking down the edge of the water, watching the men splash and dive around with amusement. She could hear Clayton Suggs scoffing somewhere behind her.

"These Ironborn worship the sea like it was some whore in a cheap brothel. They have no dignity, and no respect for what isn't theirs."

She turned her horse at that comment, and trotted it over to where Clayton was stood, conversing with some of the men that Stannis had sent with them.

Clayton Suggs was no great knight. He had been raised up as nothing. Her father would have respected the man. Everything that he had now he had fought for. He had paid the iron price for his position. She would have disagreed. Clayton had the influence that he did only because he was a cruel beast of a man. She could hear the horses of Sargon and Vickon follow her over to the man.

"You would do well to watch your tongue here, Ser Clayton. Our sea god may be listening, and that climb down was a treacherous one. It would have taken you very little to have slipped and fallen to your death."

"Was that a threat, girl? I should take your head and deliver it to Stannis to be served alongside your little brother's charred remains."

That stung, but before she could think of a response she saw that both her men had dismounted and now stood between her and Clayton. She had not realised how much larger Sargon was than the man before this happened.

"You would do well to watch your tongue, Greenlander. Your king may like you a lot less without it."

"Dirty Ironborn cunt. You will lose your head before you get a chance to come near me."

It was Vickon that spoke up next, standing next to his uncle with his arms crossed. he was more of a height with Clayton, but he was leaner and stronger.

"Two Ironborn could take ten of your greenland knights. We are followers of the Old Way. We paid the Iron Price for our weapons. You are nothing, knight."

Clayton looked at the two strong Ironborn men in front of him. He spent a few seconds weighing up his options, and eventually chose to sheathe his steel. He was too craven at heart for a fight that might see himself die. She had suspected as such. This man was no brave knight as he would have her believe. Justin Massey had called him craven.

"Good dog. Send your men to ready your ships. We sail when our Lady says."

Clayton slunk away at that comment from Sargon. Three of the nastier looking men followed him, whilst the others stayed, looking at the three of them uneasily. Asha turned her horse and had it walk away. She must be aware that the Ironborn and Greenlanders would fight. She had to create harmony between them, if she could.

Dagmer had brought five of his ships to the shore with him. She recognised three of them from the docks of Lordsport. The first, the flagship, was _Foamdrinker_ , who's captain was Dagmer himself. She could see him stood at the prow as he sailed into the bay. He was enjoying the feel of the wind. She knew the feeling.

The two ships to the left of _Foamdrinker_ were the _Swiftfish_ and the _Pride of Pyke_ , the ships captained by Lucimore and Sargon Botley. She had sailed with Lucimore on the _Swiftfish_ once. He had taken her to Blacktyde and Old Wyk on the orders of her father. The rooms had been cramped and small, but the ship had cut through the waves faster than most. Lucimore had captained it during the Battle of Fair Isle, and it had been one of the few ships to escape destruction.

The other two were new to her, however. She had not recognised them when she first saw them, but soon realised that one was the flagship of the Mormont fleet when she could see the black bear on green flying above their sails. She recognised the figure of Alysanne Mormont when the ship pulled up close enough.

The other she seemed to recognise, but she wasn't sure where from. Had she seen it among the Iron Fleet before her nuncle had sailed for Moat Cailin? That couldn't be. If the ship had been part of her nuncle's fleet then it would have returned to the Islands with him.

"The Sea Bitch... Your brother's ship, my lady."

Sargon had walked alongside her, keeping stride with her horse as a result of his long, muscular legs. She realised where he had recognized the ship from. It had been at port in Lordsport when she had first seen Theon after he returned to Pyke. She had played with his emotions that day, but she had been glad to see him, even if the greenlands had made him soft.

Dagmer had brought one of the last things that Theon had before the Bastard of Bolton had broken and ruined him. This was the last thing that had connected her brother to the Ironborn. This had been his.

She had rowed out to the ship with Tris, Rustbeard, and Greydon Merlyn, the Merlyn's second son. Sargon and Vickon went to the Pride of Pyke, whilst Lucimore and Symond took Gormund Merlyn, the heir, to the Swiftfish. Clayton Suggs and William Foxglove rowed half of Stannis' men across the bay, following just behind them.

It had been three days sailing from there to Blacktyde, and then they had arrived at Harlaw. Sigfryd Silverhair had not been there to welcome her, however. None of his sons or grandsons either. Instead the pier of Ten Towers was empty. That was how they found the castle too.

Dagmer had found no guards in the Cliff Tower, and her nuncle was not there when she checked his library. She had hoped he would be. Tris had checked the stables with Symond, and Greydon had gone to the Raven Tower to find old Maester Frester. He was not there.

She had then sent Dagmer, Vickon, Sargon and Gormund to search the town, and bring her back reports of whatever had happened. She herself took Grimtongue and Tris to find her mother and aunt, in the Widow's Tower. That had been when they had found out what had happened to the residents of Ten Towers.

Two guards were laid at the bottom of the stairs, one of them with a broken neck, the other with multiple stab wounds to the chest and neck. Dried and congealed blood laid around his body.

She had rushed up the stairs then, in some way knowing what they would find there. Her aunt was in her bed, the pillow that had smothered her still laid over her face. Her arms were limp, and her skin pale and blotchy. The skin had sagged before death, but now it was tight to the bone.

Her own mother had been worse.

She had been stabbed in both eyes, and again through the stomach. Her breasts had been mutilated and her tongue removed and placed on the pillow next to her. Her hands were covered in her own blood. She had been stripped naked after death, and had then been mockingly wrapped in the kraken of Greyjoy.

Asha knelt at the side of her mother, who had become so unstable after Theon left. She had died. They had killed her. She had died at the same time as Theon. That was fitting at least. She had to know who had done this. In a way she had already known. There was nobody that it could be but him.

When they went back downstairs they had found Dagmer and Sargon with an old man hunched between them. He was dressed in brown and torn rags, but had a grey pendant around his neck.

"Little princess, this was the only man that we could find in the town. He was a serving man under Sigfryd, brought here from Harlaw Hall. I thought you might wish to hear what he had to say."

Asha walked over to the man, as Dagmer dropped him to the floor and he knelt before her.

"Tell me what happened here."

The man's voice was rasping when he eventually spoke. His face was covered in cuts, and when his arms were revealed she could see that they were purple and bruised.

"The ships came fro' Pyke. A ma'. Germu'd Botley. He feasted. I served hi' wine. The' he cut through the me' and took Sigfryd to his ship. There were others. A you'g boy a' girl. A maester. All o' Sigfryd's sons. My brother and wife were killed. They took my sons too. An' my siste'. Back to Pyke. Thas where they sai' they was headin'"

The man before her was broken and old, but he had survived the massacre here. That was worth rewarding.

"What is your name, old man?"

"Gargon, m'lady."

"From now on, you shall be Gargon Greyhair. I name you castellan of Ten Towers in the absence of myself, my nuncle and my nuncle's cousins and nuncles. I will sail for Pyke and return your master. I will defeat Germund Botley and end the reign of terror brought on by my lordly husband. And then, when Pyke is mine, as it should be, the Iron Islands will know freedom from the Crow's Eye!"

Her men had cheered at that. Sargon Botley had beaten his mighty chest, and Rustbeard and Grimtongue had called out to the high roof of the main hall of the Harlaw castle. Asha saw Tris at the side of the room. There was no smile on his face here. Just a frown. Something bothered him. She knew what it would be.

He would tell her that she wasn't being herself. That she wasn't Ironborn truly, and that ruling the Islands wasn't what she wanted, all because he wanted her for himself. He had surprised her at the Wolfswood, but in many ways he was still a coward.

They sailed at the next morn, leaving Gargon behind with two of the Merlyn ships. They were to be his garrison and his defence. She took thirty eight ships with her for the attack. Her nuncle Dagmer had commanded ten and five, Gormund had brought five, and now commanded three, and the Mormonts had twenty ships.

On her ship she took Tris, Vickon, Rustbeard and Grimtongue, as well as Clayton and William. The rest of the crew was made up of Baratheon men. She made Grimtongue her second in command, and quite often it was he that called out orders, whilst she stared across the sea from the prow of her brother's ship.

 _Sea Bitch_. He had named her for a joke that she had made when disguised as Esgred to fool him. She had changed the name to something more fitting when she had taken the ship. She had carved it into the hull, where the ship's old name had been engraved.

She had sent Rustbeard up the mast to look for enemy ships. She had tried it with a Baratheon man on the first day, but he had failed to spot an ambush. They had lost two of the Mormont ships to a dozen from House Wynch, with only one of their attackers sunken. One of the places she stayed had clearly reported to Pyke of her return.

"Ships to starboard, m'lady!"

Rustbeard was calling down from the mast, and that caused her to look to the right. Rustbeard was right. There was a large number of ships sailing in their direction. Even from here she could make out the Botley and Wynch flags flying above them, whilst the three in the middle had some that she didn't recognise.

"Turn the ships starboard. We meet them and show them what it means to fight with Asha Greyjoy!"

She ran to the side of the ship, and called out to the Mormont flagship that was sailing on their port side. Alysanne was marshaling her crew members and soldiers.

"She-Bear!"

She called out to her Mormont companion.

"Take your ships against the Wynches! Dagmer and I will strike at the Botleys!"

Alysanne nodded at Asha, and called out more commands to the men and women of her ship. Asha turned back to her own crew, and found both Clayton and William above deck. William was trying to help the Ironborn, whilst Clayton ordered his men around, preparing the Baratheon troops for the fight.

It didn't take long for them to turn the fleet. Asha, Dagmer and Alysanne led the three flagships, with Sargon and Lucimore behind them, leading the other Botley, Merlyn and Mormont ships.

They clashed with their enemy soon enough. Asha pulled her brother's ship alongside the enemy flagship, one of the three who flew flags that she didn't recognize. She was the first onto the deck of her enemy, her axe out and calling out to her brothers to follow her. They did.

Her child had found it's way into the neck of one of her enemies soon enough, and the man fell before him. He would be squirming in his own blood. She didn't look. She had already moved on.

She could hear the roar of Grimtongue somewhere nearby. He loved the lust of battle, and that meant that he had also picked up his first kill of the battle. She slammed her axe into the head of a second man, knocking him to the ground, before digging her steel toe caps into his stomach.

She ducked out of the way of two men charging at her, and slashed one of the two at the knee, severing his leg from his body. The other soon found her throwing dirk buried in his forehead. She turned to look at her handiwork, and was then covered by a looming shadow. The man that stood before her was massive, and Asha then realised who's ship that she was on. Urek Ironmaker. Her lord husband's eldest grandson, and a feared captain of the Iron Fleet.

He carried in his arms a gigantic axe, the same size of her nuncle Victarion's. He brought it down at her, and she rolled to the side. She went for her dirk, and realized it had gone. She was without a weapon, besides for her trusted axe, but that was not going to be enough to counter Urek's weapon.

She dodged and ducked away from the next few strikes, weaving away from the attacks with a certain grace and elegance. She dodged behind the mast, and bought herself a few seconds as her enemy got the blade caught in the wood. Soon, however, he had sent her sprawling again, and she was forced into backing away along the depth, all whilst on her back. The man loomed over her, a grin of broken teeth as he prepared to bring his mighty axe down on her.

Then a blade went through his face. Blood went everywhere.

The man fell before her, and she was surprised to see Tris stood where he had been, his sword covered with the blood of Urek Ironmaker. Elsewhere on the ship she saw her enemies knelt, swords at their necks. The ship had surrendered.

She heard the sound of battle on other ships, but saw that the other three flagships had surrendered to her men. Elsewhere, ships were on fire, burning into the water. Some were hers and other were the Botley and Wynch ships. Some had even tried to sail away. The battle had been won, and the approach to Pyke was clear.

Tris, Rustbeard and Grimtongue had all survived the fighting, as had Dagmer and the Botleys on the other ships. One of the knights survoved the fight, and she was quite disheartened to find that it was Clayton. It turned out that William had been a victim of Urek Ironmaker's axe before he had picked her as a target.

"Throw the bodies of the dead into the sea. They are the friends of the Drowned God now. They must be sent to his Halls so that they can dine with him for the rest of time!"

She went below decks of the ship, but found nothing. The Ironmaker ships had clearly been sent out at the last minute, not long after the Wynch ships had arrived back at Pyke and reported that they were on the move.

It was less then a days sail from where they met the enemy ships to Pyke, and they sailed that swiftly. She gave Tris, Grimtongue and Rustbeard the three Ironmaker ships, and let them lead the vanguard, as she sailed just behind, alongside Sargon, Lucimore and Dagmer. Alysanne led the ships to their left, with the Merlyn and Botley ships to their right. This was just in case the ships that got away cared for a surprise attack.

The docks at Lordsport were empty when they arrived. The Botley and Wynch ships had clearly decided not to return to where it was clear that her troops were going to go. She docked her brother's ship, and looked at this island laid bare in front of her. She was home.

She turned to the prow of the ship. Before it had been called the _Sea Bitch_. But no longer. She traced her fingers over the letters she had carved. She had brought him home too.

 _Theon Greyjoy_.


	27. Barristan II

It was the second time this week that Barristan Selmy looked down on dead bodies laid in his hall. This time there were three of them, all Meereenese. Two of the bodies were so small. They had only been children.

Grazhar zo Galare had been thin in life, but death made him seem even smaller. He had hardly been able to pick up the practice swords with his skinny arms. He had dreamed of glory on the battlefield. That was glory that he would never have now. Not now. He had been a good student.

He had been lain next to his friend and companion, Azzak zo Ghazeen. He had been another of the young boys that Barristan had been training. Azzak had been adventurous, quick to fight and good with a sword. He had been the most talented of all of the boys.

The two had been ambushed by five members of the Brazen Beasts in the halls of the Great Pyramid. It had taken five grown men to kill two children. They were cowards and cravens to the man. But it was not they that gave the order. They did not act unprompted.

"Did you seize the Shavepate?"

He spoke to Ser Tumco Lho, who followed him around in silence. It had been one of his squires that had found the two children brutally murdered.

"He has been placed in the recently vacated cell, Lord Hand."

Lho's speech of the Western Tongue was better than most of the others. He had been raised on the Basilisk Isles, where they frequently had visited by Westerosi pirates from the Stepstones and the Iron Islands. That was why Barristan had him with him.

"And Marselen?"

"Mother's Men give him over willingly. He admits to crime."

Barristan was stood over the last body as he was told this. This one was not that of a child, but of a fully grown man. It was a tall body, slender, but not too thin like Grazhar. His skin had been flawless amber before. He had been stripped by his attacker, and stabbed repeatedly in the chest. He had died with no resistance.

King Hizdahr zo Loraq looked much paler in death than he had in life. The glow of confidence that he had in life was gone in death. He was much more breakable, as Daenerys Targaryen's commander had found out when he had entered the cell and done the deed. Barristan Selmy did not need to know what motivation Marselen had for this act.

The Mother's Men commander had come to Meereen as one of three orphans, freed from the slavemasters of Astapor. The city had claimed his brother first, and then his sister. Both had been killed by the Sons of the Harpy. Hizdahr had been accused of being the Harpy, there had been no evidence. Skahaz had wanted the man killed anyway, as he had wanted the death of the children.

He had known not to trust the Shavepate. The man was a disgrace to his queen for what he had done here. How would he explain the death of her cousin to the Green Grace?

"Did you find the other children?"

"Three girl found alive. One dead, Ser."

"Where is the dead one?"

"Thrown from Pyramid, Lord Hand."

"Seven Gods. What was her name."

"Kezmya zo Pahl."

He knew the name. She had been the oldest of his queen's cupbearers. She had only been fifteen, though. No girl deserved to suffer a fate like that.

"Bring the Shavepate up to the Queen's chambers."

Tumco started to move away, but Barristan grabbed his arm.

"Fetch Naharis, Grey Worm, and the Imp. I would have them be here for this, too."

Tumco nodded again and moved to leave. This time Barristan let him go, and turned to the other two men in the room with him.

Jorah Mormont wore a grave face at the sight of the two dead children. He was of the Old Gods, Barristan remembered, dead children were a bad omen for those of the North. Strong Belwas barely took any notice of the three dead bodies laid on the floor.

"Belwas, I have a task for you. Take two of the Stalwart Shields and head down to the port. Bring Victarion Greyjoy to me. Do you think you can manage that?"

The intimidating man waited for a few seconds, before nodding slowly and walking off.

"Would you have me do anything, Ser Barristan?"

"You come with me, Mormont. I don't trust the Imp that you brought me. Keep your eye on him. Tell me what he does during this meeting."

The bear knight nodded at this. There was a smile on his lined face, somewhere beneath all the stubble. He was happy to be back in service. In truth, Barristan didn't trust Mormont either, and would have the Imp watch him, so that they could both prove their loyalty. It was a rather fine move, if he didn't say so himself.

He didn't enjoy the politics, he never had. It had been the part of serving on the Kingsguard that he had hated. Once upon a time, the Kingsguard had been an institution filled with the finest knights of their time. The likes of Ryam Redwyne, Alyn Connington, and Jeffory Norcross. They had been knights.

He had been forced to deal with cravens and men who used their position for political benefits. Boros Blount had been the worst, at least Mandon Moore and Meryn Trant were good soldiers, but they had not been good men. There had been good men pass him by. Arys Oakheart had been young when he was named, and Barristan had taught him the ways of the sword.

None had been as bad as the Kingslayer, however. Jaime Lannister had been brash, bold and arrogant, and had broken his most sacred oath to protect the king. He should have been executed by Robert, or if not that, then Barristan himself should have killed him, in the same way that Jaime murdered Aerys.

The Imp was Jaime's brother. They had been close. He trusted the dwarf as much as he had the men that had taught him. Jaime and Tywin had both been traitors. he had cried few tears over the death of Tywin Lannister, but had been disgusted when he heard that the Imp had performed the act himself. Kinslaying was almost as bad as kingslaying. The Lannister brood was worse than he had known.

The Queen's apartments had been vacant ever since Hizdahr's arrest. Skahaz had tried to offer them to Barristan, but he had declined. He had no notions of grandeur, as the Meereenese traitor had.

When they arrived, some of the advisors had already gathered.

Grey Worm stood on the right side of the military planning table, with Daario Naharis stood opposite him. The Dothraki, Jhogo, sat nearer the corner, his arakh drawn and balanced on his thighs. His eyes were closed. He was deep in concentration.

The room had the dragon banners of House Targaryen decorated around the walls, interspersed with some of the riches that they had been given by Yunkai and the Meereenese freedmen.

"You call us hear too early, brave Ser Barristan. I barely had time to have any sleep last night. What matter could possibly warrant such a meeting."

Barristan was going to respond to that, but another did it for him.

"Mayhaps if you spent less time fucking the locals, Naharis, you would have more time for sleep."

He recognised the Imp's voice, and turned to see that he was correct. Tyrion Lannister had arrived, with Tumco Lho stood behind him. The Lannister lion had wasted no time in commissioning fine cloaks of red and gold from the local seamstresses to replace the rags that he had arrived in. He looked more like the son of Tywin Lannister now. Of course, he was also the murderer.

"I believe that Ser Barristan has called us all here to discuss the matter of the three dead bodies currently laid out in the great hall. I would be correct on that front?"

The Imp waddled over to take his seat beside the table, next to Naharis, with whom he had become fast friends. Whilst the two sat, Grey Worm stayed stood, staring at the dragon tapestry located opposite him.

"You would be correct, Imp. Those three bodies pose a threat to our Queen. They were two of the highborn children sent to us, and our Queen's lord husband."

"Brave Lord Hizdahr is dead, you say?"

Naharis had taken an interest in that. His arms were folded on the table, and he looked at Barristan with a gleam in his eye. He didn't trust the men, and he especially didn't trust that look. It wouldn't surprise him if Naharis had encouraged Marselen into killing Hizdahr.

"Indeed. He was murdered in his cell by Marselen, leader of the Mother's Men-"

"Unsullied. He Unsullied. No Mother's Men. Unsullied."

Barristan was surprised at Grey Worm for interrupting. He didn't usually speak up at these councils unless spoken to. His stare had not broken off from the dragon. There was sadness in his eyes. He had never seen him like this before.

"Yes. He was Unsullied. Marselen says that he killed Hizdahr out of revenge for the death of Misssandei during the fighting."

"You think Hizdahr was responsible? Was there any proof of this?"

The Imp's question was true enough. Skahaz had said that he thought Hizdahr to be the leader of the Sons of the Harpy, who had taken credit for the death of Missandei. Maybe Marselen shared the same belief, or maybe the two worked together.

"The Imp is right, Ser Barristan. Brave Hizdahr had no reason to want that little girl dead. He was a man of acquired taste, I hear, but not so much so that he would do this."

"Hizdahr Mother's husband. He keep peace."

"When news of his death reaches the others of the noble House of Loraq, they will not be happy. He had a brother, but he is not in the city. There was a cousin amongst the Brazen Beasts, but he cannot be found. His only reachable male kin is a boy, one of the cupbearers."

"You think the missing cousin fell victim to the wrath of the one you call the Shavepate? Killing him would make sense, considering the man's moves elsewhere."

"We should be open to the idea that this was what happened, yes."

Just then the door opened again, and four more men joined the group.

The first was the Iron Captain, Victarion Greyjoy, dressed in a gold and black doublet, his cloak flowing behind him. It was rare to see the man not dressed for battle. Clearly he had expected no fights to occur in between his ship and the Pyramid. That was somewhat unfortunate for the man.

His shadow followed him in. It was the ebony skinned priest, who called himself the key to Volantis and the bringer of light. Moqorro was his true name, though the Ironborn called him Dark Flame. He had not called for the man at the meeting, though he was used to Victarion ignoring his requests. He was glad that no other Ironborn men had been brought.

Behind them came Belwas, who he had sent to fetch Victarion. The eunuch was covered in sweat, and promptly seated himself on a plush chair without a word. That was the way of Strong Belwas. He was silent, but deadly.

The last man was again not someone he had wanted to see.

The Tattered Prince had a habit of finding his way into meetings where he was not wanted. The Windblown had turned their services over to their cause, but had also helped in the freeing of two dragons, neither of which had returned to the city since. A few farmers had reported sightings, but he had turned them all away. They could not be trusted.

He wore his rags as a sign of pride. They represented his travels and all the places that he had visited. He had silks from Lys and Myr, satin from Asshai and Qarth, scraps from Qhor and Lorath, even some fabric from Braavos and Westeros. The man's eyes were sad, and his hair silver. He reminded Barristan of Prince Rhaegar when he was in one of his moods, when he visited Summerhall.

Usually he had taken Arthur Dayne or Oswell Whent, but when they couldn't go he would take Barristan. He used to watch the Prince as he walked around the ruins, strumming on his lyre and singing words under his breath. On the rides back the Prince would barely speak. There had always been sadness in his eyes then too, like that in the eyes of the Tattered Prince.

"I did not invite a representative from the Windblown."

"I am aware of this. I came anyway."

The Prince moved around Barristan, and sat next to Naharis, on the other side of the man than the Imp. The three spent a lot of time together now. They were an odd trio. He could understand Naharis and the Imp. They were both disreputable and debauched. The Prince, however, claimed to be cultured and deeper. He didn't fit into the group.

Victarion stayed stood. He didn't sit. Barristan wasn't sure if he had ever seen the man truly relaxed. He was intense, and almost constantly on edge. He wanted the Queen. The news of Hizdahr's death would not be sad for him, nor for Naharis.

"With this move the Shavepate may have made our position in Meereen untenable. The noble houses of Loraq, Pahl, Ghazeen and Galare now all have reason to rise up against us. The Yunkish siege may have been lifted, but the remnants of their army are waiting to pounce. We have to leave the city."

"Meereen belong to Mother. Queen Daenerys. We can no leave."

"Unsullied is right. Khaleesi will return, we be here for then."

Naharis spoke next.

"Even if we leave the city, Ser Barristan, where would we go? We cannot pass down the Demon Road. Should we go north and east, to Lhazar?"

"My ships can sail us away. To Volantis, and then to the Iron Islands."

"Ships are our best choice now. We do not have enough, however. We need more if we hope to carry all our supporters to Volantis."

"If I may interject, Barristan. When me and Ser Jorah were on our little adventure, we heard tale of a man named the Corsair King. Mayhaps if we could find him, then he would loan us some of his ships, if we promise him reward."

"The Corsair King is a pirate of the Basilisk Isles. He has terrorised islands for years. What makes you think he would help us, Imp?"

Tyrion Lannister leaned back in his chair, his little legs swaying as he did. His nose had gone since Barristan had last seen him, and he was now uglier than ever.

"Money."

Of course that was what he was offering to give to their cause. That was all the Lannisters could offer, after all. They thought that everybody could be bought off. That was their skill. That was their power.

"If I may, Lord Hand."

There was a queer smile on Daario's face when he talked.

"I hear that the Corsair King has taken up in Astapor recently, waiting to profit from the war between us and the Yunkai'i. It would not take long for a small party to visit him and persuade him to help us."

He had to think fast. He couldn't think of any other reason that the two were so persistent about the man beyond them wanting to preserve both their lives. Those ships could be vital, and if they thought they could get them...

On the other hand, the Corsair King was a criminal and reaver. He had slain and raped hundreds, if not thousands. Was that the kind of man that Daenerys would want in her debt? Was that the kind of man that she wanted to be with her when first she returned to Westeros?

His mind went back to a man who had sometimes visited the court when Aerys was king. Saan, that was what he had called himself. In his youth, Aerys had awaited his visits, for he would tell the king stories of the sea and his voyages. He would tell him of the cold waters of Ibben, or the dark towers of Asshai, or the golden wines of the Arbor. That was before Duskendale, before the madness.

Then Saan's visits had been few and far between, as he had grown older and his son had taken over his ship. When he had visited, he had fewer tales, and that drove the king into his rages. One time, he threatened to have Saan burned alive for being boring. The pirate had never returned to King's Landing again.

"Very well. Victarion, take Naharis and the Imp with you to Astapor. Bring me whatever ships you can get. Be swift. We need to be out of the city within the next few days. Our Meereenese friends will storm the pyramid when they hear the news."

"I will do this for my wife. Not for you."

Victarion left the room, the Imp and Daario following him. Lannister's pace caused them to slow, as he couldn't match Victarion's strides and he had to waddle faster than he usually could. He was glad to have the monstrosity out of the city.

"I am glad we have dealt with that. The next thing we must discuss is the defence of the Great Pyramid. I want half of the Unsullied guarding the entrance at all times. Get the Unsullied in training guarding rooms and entrances within the Pyramid itself. Each member of this council should be accompanied by two Unsullied as well."

"What would you have the Windblown do?"

"Take your men and what is left of the Second Sons to secure the harbour. We will need access to it when Victarion returns with the ships. Jhogo, take the best men of the Khalasar and ride to the west. Set up a camp there and await news from me. That will be where we go if we cannot reach the harbour."

The Tattered Prince bowed his head in acquiescence, but the Dothraki rose from his seat with anger on his face.

"I fight for Khaleesi. I no run. I fight."

"There will be more battles fought in the name of Daenerys Targaryen in the future. You will be able to fight then. Right now, we need this if we are going to escape. We need to make our moves fast, before the enemies we have in this city find out."

Jhogo growled, but he left the room, the rage still on his face. The Prince, however, remained.

"What do you intend to do with your prisoners?"

"Why do you care?"

"Ben Plumm-"

"He is of no concern of yours."

The Tattered Prince had made several attempts to get custody of Brown Ben Plumm since he had been delivered to Meereen by the Imp and Ser Jorah. He had made an enemy of the man in the Disputed Lands, apparently. The one that they called Meris was interested in the former commander of the Second Sons.

"Very well. The others?"

"They will remain our prisoners."

"I know it is not what you want to hear, but it is true. You may be able to buy us time if you give the Lord Shavepate over to the houses that he has wronged."

"They would butcher him."

"Is that any less than he deserves?"

"He should be judged by Daenerys, as any men should be."

"He did not give Hizdahr zo Loraq that chance. Nor did he with the young children that he murdered in cold blood. He is no true man, and this would save brave soldiers that may die as a result of his actions."

Barristan had heard the sounds of battle too many times in his life. He did not wish to fight another within the streets of Meereen. If giving the Shavepate over to his contemporaries to judge would save lives... Would that be what Daenerys would want him to do?

No, he must take the prisoners with him. That was how this had to be. They would be taken on the ships with them, until they could be judged.

"We have seven prisoners from the attacks this morning. The five Brazen Beasts that attacked the children, plus Marselen and the Shavepate. There are others in those cells, however. Ben Plumm, Lord Ghael, Menya zo Pahl. What would you suggest we do with them? Leave them to be killed too?"

The Prince shook his head at that, a rye smile on his face. The two of them were likely of a similar age. It was the first time that he had thought that.

"Take them with you if you will. They will eat your food and drink your water, all so that your queen will execute them. How many of your men will go without so that you can spare your sword from the blood of traitors, Ser Barristan. How many men will die so that they may have their deaths prolonged."


	28. Kinslayer

He was woken up from his sleep when the boot met his stomach. It wasn't a light tap, but a full force kick. He would have been sent flying, had it not been for the chains around his hands that kept him tied to the post.

Theon Greyjoy was miserable.

He was topless and chained down in the centre of the Northmen camp. They left him to sleep like this, with guards waking him up with kicks and punches during the night. They tortured him, but it was a relief from what he had experienced from Lord Ramsay. These Northerners were better than him.

There was a voice inside him that called out at that. It told him that nobody was better than Ramsay, that Ramsay was his master, that Ramsay was his freind. The voice was wrong. It was getting quieter every day.

When he looked up he found three of the Northmen looming over him and smiling. They weren't kind smiles, but ones that showed that they were taking joy from the pain that he was feeling.

He recognised one of the men straight away, if from nothing else but the eyepatch that he wore. Mors Umber, who he had thought to be his brother. Mors was the cruelest of the four Northern commanders. He made Theon dance at dinner, dance for scraps. He told the story of how he had visited Winterfell when Bran and Rickon were alive, he had told the others of how he had been proud of the two little lords. He told them of how it had been Theon that had taken their lives.

He had made him say it. He had made him call himself a kinslayer over and over and over. He made him sing it as he dance and say it before the weirwoods whenever they had found one in the wild wood that they traveled through.

The faces carved into the trees mocked him. They judged him for the crime that he had committed. They cried for the boys he had killed. They laughed at the pain that Ramsay had caused him. They reminded him that he deserved it.

"Don't kick the boy this morning. He has a long day ahead of him. He will need all the rest that he can have."

Two other men walked over to Mors now. He recognized their faces, but did not know their names. Where the Northerners wore bearskins, the two men here wore battered armour, dented in the chest and the shoulders. They were old, with worn faces and grey hair. His hair was grey too, but he wasn't old. Sometimes it felt like it.

"I will kick whichever bloody kinslayer that I want, southron. He brough' it on himself. He deserves every kick of it."

"By the end of the day he will have righted those wrongs. When he delivers the prize that we are going for... Stannis will be pleased with us, and then we can go back south and away from this cold."

"You think this is cold, southron. I have felt colder winds blowing out my brother's arse. You wouldn't last a week up high in the mountains. You wouldn't last a minute at Last Hearth."

"And you wouldn't last a day outside of your frozen wasteland. We know where our place is, in the south. Your place is in the North. Neither of us would survive in our opposite's home environment."

Theon felt glad that the man was standing up for him, but Mors Umber was right. He did deserve the punishments. He deserved every kick and every scold. He deserved everything that the Northerners directed at him. He had been one of them once, and he had betrayed them. He had betrayed Robb and Bran and Rickon. He had betrayed Sansa and Arya and Lady Catelyn. Jon Snow too. Even Eddard Stark. He had betrayed them all and now they were all dead.

One of the two men knelt beside him, and put his right hand on Theon's left shoulder. The man had a kind smile, but Ramsay had one sometimes, and he was a monster.

"I do not think that we have properly introduced, boy. My name is Desmond Grell, my companion is Robin Ryger. We were friends of Lady Stark, when she was younger. I am willing to protect you, if you would like these men to stop their behaviour towards you."

"Back off, Grell. He knows that he deserves it. He tells the weirwoods tha' he is a kinslayer. He sings it and dances to it around the fires. He is nothing more than that. Do they not punish kinslayers in the south? Do they allow them to roam free and do whatever they like? Not in the North. A kinslayer is a monster. They are cursed by the gods. This one is too."

"We treat kinslayers the same that you do, but we also know the use that pawns have in the fight that is going to come. You could kill the boy, and we still have need for him. I was told that the boy could be yours when we have achieved our goal. Until then, we are to keep him safe and, most importantly, alive."

That caused a scowl on the bearded face of Mors Umber, and the man stormed off, with his companions behind him. That left Theon alone with the two southron men. Desmond Grell and Robin Ryger was what they called themselves. He remembered Maester Luwin showing him the arms of the Rygers, but he did not know the arms of the Grells.

"Come with me, with us. We are going to prepare you and ready yourself for the day ahead. It's going to be a long one. We have some very exciting things for you to do, and with luck we might be able to land a big blow on the bastard that did this to you."

He had called Lord Ramsay a bastard. He couldn't say that. He couldn't call Ramsay a bastard. Lord Ramsay would kill him for that. He would take off his fingers or his toes. He would flay him slowly and not kill him quickly.

Desmond Grell took him to the tent that the Northerners had put up for the few southron men that had joined them. Aside from the two knights, there were four other men, all of whom wore the red rags of Lannister cloaks and the dented, rusted armour they had been given at the start of the war. They were turncloaks, who had followed Jaime Lannister or Gregor Clegane, but had decided not too any more.

Inside the tent he was given broth to drink. It was made of vegetables, and the meat of one of the horses that had died the day before. It was nice, but the meat was chewy. It made him feel more full than he had in some days. Mors Umber had ordered that he be starved. Still, this was nothing like the food that the old Winterfell cook had been able to make. He couldn't remember the man's name.

He could remember the faces of some of the men that had died because of him, but not the name of all of them. There was the young septon, with the cheerful face and the red cheeks, the kennelmaster, with his thick arms and baying hounds, the cook, who had been jolly and fat, with thinning brown hair.

Then there had been Mikken, the armourer. He could remember his name, as they had trained together when they had been younger. Mikken had been older than the others that Rodrik Cassell taught arms to, but he had been strong. Theon had killed him. The man had died because of him.

"Do you know where we are, boy?"

That was Robin Ryger speaking. He was big and bald, where Desmond Grell had long, white hair. This man was stronger and in better shape than Grell. He was eating meat off the bone of a bird that he had killed. Grease from the meat had dripped down onto his chin, but he still managed to hold himself well.

Should he know where they were? He hadn't recognized the land or the woods, but the snow may have changed the place. Had Eddard Stark brought him here when he was younger? Had he ridden here with Robb and Jon and Harwin? Had he camped here when he was searching for Bran and Rickon.

"Over those hills lies the ancestral home of the Boltons. We are a stone's throw from the Dreadfort itself. A silly name, if you ask me."

Theon couldn't hear the rest of what Robin Ryger had to say about the castle. All he could think of was Lord Ramsay, and the terrible things that had happened to him at that man's hand in the dungeons. Those dungeons had been large. Could they be underneath his very feet as these men talked? Was Ramsay following them, with Damon-dance-for-me, Sour Alyn and old Ben Bones? Were the Notherners going to take him to those dungeons and lock him away in the darkness of those dungeons?

"The boy does not want to talk of the Dreadfort, Robin. He has experienced a lot since he was last Theon Greyjoy. The Dreadfort is no place of happiness for this lad. Let us not speak of such things, and instead think of the homes that we can return to when this war is fought."

"Home... Riverrun... The roaring fires of the great hall, and the call of Hoster for his children to come to him... Cat watching out of the tower for her father, whenever he would ride to Pinkmaiden, or Raventree Hall."

"Drinking Dornish wine with Hos and Utherydes, as the sun set down over the Godswood... The sound of Edmure and Marq Piper playing in the trees... What of you Dunsen? What is home to you?"

"I 'ad a small 'ouse in Lannisport when I was younger. Moved out to the countryside when I took my first wife. Then this war started, and Gregor took me away from my wife and son. There were others. Raff the Sweetling, Polliver, Eggon. They 'ad no families. They were bas'ards born of whores mostly, and prepared to do the foul things the Moun'ain wanted."

"There was one, name of Chiswyck if memory serves. 'Im and Raff were the worst. Polliver was little better."

"Was it they that gave you the name Shitmouth?"

"Yes, Ser. Was called Mason before this, on account of what my father did for a living. I knew nothing of arms before this war, now i know more than I ever wanted to."

"Do you have a wife?"

"I did. The Wolves killed her when they attacked Ashemark. Left me with a daugh'er heavy with child. They took her. Maybe the boy is born by now, and he can be a mason when he grows up."

These were just men. These men were not Ramsay. They were not monsters like the men that followed him. They were just men. Just men.

"What of you, Greyjoy? I heard you were quite the wooer of women before this war began. How many bastards do you think that you have fathered?"

That caused a laugh from most of the men, as Robin Ryger continued to eat his bird. Desmond Grell rested his hand on Theon's shoulder, however, and almost rose him from his seat. When he was stood he was taller than those seated, even if Ramsay had caused his shoulders to be stooped.

"Come, my boy. Let us see what we can find you in the way of armour before this very important day. The Dreadfort is weakened, but it is not undefended. Karstarks and Boltons hold the castle."

Desmond spirited Theon out of the room of converted Lannister men. He spirited him away from Robin Ryger and his greasy bird. He spirited him away from their questions and their stories. Outside the wind was biting and cold, yet he felt little of it, the large frame of the southron knight shielding him.

"I want you to know, boy. Inside those walls there may be men that you are familiar with. People that you met when the Bastard of Bolton had you as a prisoner. You will be safe in those walls, provided that you stay by my side. I will not let them harm you."

"You- You want me to go inside? No man is safe inside those walls. There is darkness and death and the drip drip of water as Lord Ramsay takes the skin off your fingers. That place holds no happiness. Not for me, not for Kyra, not for anyone."

"It is the will of Stannis Baratheon that the Dreadfort be taken and that his stag be raised where the flayed man is now. That the wolf of Stark be raised high as well, that you help us do this and prove your loyalty."

"How could I help you. I am nothing. I am broken. I am Reek."

"You are Theon Greyjoy, son of the Lord Reaver of Pyke, ward of the Warden of the North, trained by Rodrik Cassell, and friend to the King in the North. What Ramsay Snow did to you was abhorrent, as was what he did to Donella Hornwood, and your friend Kyra. He should be punished."

"Kyra? You know Kyra?"

"I have been told of her by my benefactor. It was he that told us of your little secret. The postern gate that opens into the Bolton dungeons. That is how we will take the castle from our enemies."

A large man was stood in front of them. He was younger than Desmond Grell, with a fur coat that had been made from the stripped skin of a bear. He had a long, brown beard that went all the way to his waist. It caused a queer look, as he was entirely bald on the top of his head. This was Morgan Liddle, of the mountains.

"Ser Desmond, I was sent to fetch the Kinslayer and you. We are preparing for the attack. You will be coming with me and Mors, whilst Hugo will take a force to the gate, to distract the garrison left by Roose Bolton. Come, we must take our place in the forest."

"The boy needs armour. He is unprotected."

"The boy gets nothing. If the Old Gods wish him to live beyond this battle then they will let him. His armour will be the Old Gods. That is the way that it will be."

Morgan Liddle walked away from then, and left Theon stood underneath the arm of Desmond Grell. The old knight had a scowl on his face. he didn't approve of what Hugo Wull had decided to do, that much was clear. He wouldn't appose the will of the Big Bucket of the Wulls. That man was even more fearsome than the Umber and Liddle.

They went through the woods then, following the tracks that Morgan Liddle had left in the snow. The trees were tall and green, even in winter the pine leaves stuck to their branches in this part of the North. He had never journeyed this far from Winterfell with Eddard or Robb. These were Bolton lands. Was this where Ramsay had caught him and Kyra? Was this where she had screamed as she died?

The Northerners advance camp was a modest one. The Wull had set up a single tent, where he stood with two of his other highborns. The rest of the group was made up of the best men of the Wulls, Liddles, Flints and Glovers. They were joined by a dozen men from Houses Woods and Branch, who were of the Wolfswood.

Noseless Ned Woods was one of the commanders with the Wull. He was wiry man, old and thin, who had the tip of his nose missing, where he had lost it to frostbite during a winter that had happened before Theon's birth. He had sat by the fires when Wull and Liddle and Umber had tormented him. He had allowed it to happen.

They had been joined by Morgan Liddle, who stood closer to Wull than Woods did. Another figure came then, traipsing out of the forest, a slow approach through the deep snow. Even from here, Theon could make out the figure. He was as thin and wiry as Woods, but younger, with black hair, where Woods was grey. That was Benjicot Branch, one of the two scouts that Wull had with him.

"Umber is in position. He will attack the castle on our cue. He has the ladders and the ram ready."

"Then we should loose the arrow and do this deed as quickly as we can. I would have this over with, and then we can raise the wolf banner over the castle, where it belongs. Every one of them Karstarks and Boltons can die, as long as I care."

Morgan Liddle turned and bellowed to one of the men then, on the orders of his own commander.

"Ungor, launch the arrow!"

One of the Branch men drew an arrow, and dipped it in the fire, before pulling it and firing it high into the sky. It would land in the wood nearby. The woods would go up in flames, the wood around the Dreadfort would burn. Burn. Burn. That was what they deserved. For Kyra. These woods had seen horrors. They deserved to burn.

He could hear the Northern roars of war in the distance. That would be Mors Umber beginning his attack. He had seen Umber fight. He had seen Northerners fight. They would be ferocious.

"Come, Kinslayer. Lead us to where the postern gate is. Lead us there and show us that the Old Gods favour you."

There was a sneer in Wull's voice, as if he didn't expect this plan to work. No doubt he would prefer to be in the force launching the direct attack, as opposed to sneak attacks. That was considered to be dishonourable by the older men of the North. Grell clasped his hand over Theon's shoulder and Branch pushed him forwards, into the deep drifts of the snow.

He stumbled onwards, with one of the noble men pushing him in the back whenever he came to a stop. It wasn't Branch. He had taken a group right of them, with Woods going left. They would meet up at the gate. Maybe it was Wull, maybe the Liddle.

It was not long before they reached the western wall of the Dreadfort. The lookouts had been pulled out of position. The sound of swords clashing came to them even here. He could still hear the howling of the Northerners. He took them north then, following along the wall's path to the north.

They were shielded from the bitter wind here, and soon enough he found the door that Kyra had shown him so long ago. She had died. She had died. She had died for him. She had died for his blood. She had died for the Starks. He had killed her. He had done it. He had done it, not Ramsay. He had killed her.

He was pushed to the side then, with two of the Wull men pushing to the front. They attacked the wooden door with mighty axes, fashioned from the old steel of the mountains. Nothing like the polished steel of the knights of the south, or the Lords of the Northern castles. They made short work of the entrance, revealing the steep flight of stairs built into the wall. They headed down, down into the darkness.

Hugo Wull stood by the door, a wicked smile upon his broad face.

"You first, Kinslayer."

Theon was nearly pushed down the stairs by Morgan Liddle. He heard the man follow him into the darkness, but soon he could not see in front of himself anymore than he could behind him. He could feel the wetness of the walls and the hard stone beneath his feet. In places it was uneven and slippery. The climb down wasn't a long one, but the darkness surrounded him.

It bore him dreams of everything that Ramsay had done to him here. The darkness had been his friend then. His only friend. He had talked to it, and sometimes it had talked back. One time, not long after he had arrived, before most of the horrors, it had told him a story about a knight and a laughing tree.

He collapsed at the bottom of the stairs. He tumbled into the corner, where hay softened his fall. He could hear men rushing past him. Even here he could hear the sound of swords clashing, but now he could also hear the laughs of his tormentor. Ramsay's laugh. It was brutish and deadly and mocking. He enjoyed the pain. He enjoyed the fact that, even now, even when he was so far away, he could still bring Theon to tears.

He wailed and creamed at the laugh, he screamed at the darkness who had once been his only friend here. The darkness tormented him now. He had left this place and left his friend, and now his friend and turned to his enemy and helped him mock. The darkness cut through him like no knife that Ramsay had ever wielded. He felt the touch of someone around him, but he shied away. They were coming for him!

The darkness went away then, but was replaced by even more of it. This time he wasn't thinking. This was sleep. This was safety.

He awoke amongst the hay, and found Desmond Grell crouched nearby, a small fire built at his feet. Robin Ryger was stood nearby, a bandage worn around his head, but a smile on his face, where Grell had a grim look.

"The boy awakes at last. Awake more of a hero than he was in the morning, I suspect. This battle has been won because of him."

Ryger came to his side, and lifted him from the hay. He could pick up fully, his arms were so broad. Others could do it, but Ryger was squatter than Wull, or Liddle, or even Stannis Baratheon, who was shorter than both.

"The day was not so easily won. We lost two hundred Umber men, thirty Wulls, forty Liddles and most of the men of the Woods men. Ned Woods is among the dead."

"A dour man, but it is a shame indeed. They lost more, and the castle is ours. Soon we will be back south, back home. The quicker we leave this frozen wast the better."

They were interrupted then by the sound of a woman's approach. The steps were muffled and hushed, and the figure that came into the light of the fire was stooped and hunched.

"I was told little Theon Greyjoy would be down here. The sweet summer child that I remember from his youth. Not the man he became."

He recognized the voice. It was Old Nan, the wetnurse of Winterfell. Stood besides her was a young girl, who's auburn hair stood out in the darkness. He knew the curly hair. He knew the girl. He couldn't remember the name. He couldn't remember...

Old Nan came over to him. Her smile was ugly, on account of her missing teeth, but her eyes were kind enough. How could she look at him like that after how he had acted. He deserved no kindness from those that had known him before, from those that had seen what he would become after. He had treated these people with wickedness. That was what he deserved in return.

Her hand was clammy when it touched his cheek. He could feel the wrinkles on her aged skin. There were tears in her dim eyes as she spoke.

"Every day I spoke a prayer to the Old Gods that you would return, my summer child. Winter changed you, but I sense that the boy I knew is coming back to us. Back to where he belongs."

"Where I belonged was besides Robb, besides Bran, besides Rickon. They were my brothers, and I was theirs. I betrayed them. I betrayed you. I betrayed the North and Winterfell and Lord Stark, a man that raised me."

"Theon Greyjoy, I have known you since you were a child. I told you stories and watched you play at arms. I watched you grow to be a man of the North. You were named a Northman, did you know that, boy? King Theon Stark, first of his name. The Hungry Wolf, they called him. He fought through a twenty year winter, or so my mother told me. He fought the Ironborn, and won Bear Island from a Hoare. You must choose to be like him or not."

"I am no Stark. I am not the son of Lord Eddard. I was his ward and his prisoner."

"And yet he loved you like a child, and his children loved you like a brother, and the people of Winterfell loved you as a son of the North. Your father was a cruel man, from the stories I was told by those who fought on Pyke. You loved the wild hills of the North, you loved the stories of Stark kings. You are Theon Greyjoy in name, but at heart you are a Stark of Winterfell."

"Aye."

That voice was new, yet familiar. It was gruff. He knew who it belonged too. His thoughts were confirmed when Mors Umber stepped forward, Hugo Wull and Morgan Liddle flanking him.

"And we have had word from Stannis Baratheon. The North is yours, Lord Stark."


	29. Daenerys II

The skull of the Black Goat was staring down at her with eyes of fire. It had scared her when she had come here before with Viserys. He had laughed at her for it, calling her a coward. She had thought that it had scared him too, but she hadn't wanted to wak the dragon. She had been little then. She had still believed that Viserys was something to be scared of. Maybe he had been right. Maybe she had been a coward. She stared back into the eyes of the animal that the Qohorik worshipped, determined to prove to herself that she was no longer a little girl.

"I knew an acolyte who went travelling to Qohor once. Pot was his name. Lardy arsed boy. Used to eat his weight daily, and that was no mean feat. Clever boy, though. The fat boys are often cleverer than those raised as soldiers or smiths."

"A fine story, Archmaester, but one that, I fear, does not seem of any important to our, khaleesi."

She started then, and looked around at her war council. It was pitiful compared to the ones that she had held in Meereen. Back then she had brave knights, Unsullied veterans, sellsword captains, fighting pit champions, Dothraki youths, even some men of Meereen had aided her. Now the men advising her on military policy were so small, in comparison.

There was Archmaester Marwyn. He had been the man that had been talking then, telling them of the history of the city that they were camped outside. He had talked about ancient battles, the Valyrian freehold, the founding of the Black Goat as the god of the city. That had been where she had become bored and drifted off into listless imaginations.

She had wondered about what had become of her Daario, or of Hizdahr, or of brave Ser Barristan. She had wondered to where Ser Jorah had gone after his exile. Had he found a sellsword company, or returned to Pentos, to be with fat Magister Illyrio. Maybe he had even gone to Lys to try and steal back his lady love.

"Understanding the history of our enemies is an important way of beating them, my grace, especially considering that we are only bothering with this to act as a symbol of your own power to the Dothraki, who have been too scared to fight the Qohorik ever since the Three Thousand made their stand. As Rogero said, we should destroy the buggers before we can let them rise off their arses."

Yes. This had been Rogero's plan hadn't it. Of course it had been. Everything they had done since she awoke at Vaes Dothrak had been part of one of Rogero's schemes. He played the game with a cocky arrogance that reminded her even more of Daario every day she spent with him. He had ridden alongside her when they abandoned their camp, Rogero's bloodriders behind them. He had brought them with him to Vaes Dothrak, and he had left with one fewer.

Rakharo and Humfrey Hightower would alternate riding with them too. She had thought of giving the Dothraki a white cloak, but had decided against it. She was not sure that he would want that of her. A cloak would hide his braid from view, and the Dothraki preferred to ride topless anyway.

Sometimes they would be joined up front by Motho, who had escorted her out of Vaes Dothrak, but more often than not he would lead their rear, marshalling the Dothraki that rode as freeriders to make sure that the mighty khalasar was not being followed. She enjoyed it when he did ride with them, however, as he had many stories, and he was kind to her, which was more than could be said of the other great khals of the Dothraki Sea.

Any man could be a khal, or so Motho told her, but not any man had it in them to lead a khalasar. At any one time there was never usually more than 10 great khals, who were recognised as such by the Dosh Khaleen. They were the mightiest khals, those who commanded the most men and had the longest braids. When one died, their khalasar would either split, and then fight each other over the position, or would pass into the hands of a son, if one was deemed worthy.

The great Khals now were Motho, Rogero, Zekko, Jhaqo, Pono, Jommo, Rhogoro, Ikko, and Rashato. There should be another, but Motho wasn't sure of his name. He would only be recent, as Khal Paro had been slain in battle by Jhaqo before she was brought to Vaes Dothrak.

Marwyn didn't like to ride, but he had to when with the Dothraki. To do otherwise would be showing his weakness. Whenever she met him he said that he would ride with them if he could, but that he had never enjoyed to ride fast, and often she and Rogero would fly ahead of the khalasar, letting the wind run through their hair. She had done this before, when she had been Drogo's, and loved it, but now she knew how it felt to ride on the back of a dragon it was less impressive.

Motho, Humfrey and Rakharo had all been given places on her war council, Rakharo upon her insisting to Rogero that her bloodrider be given a place amongst them. They had been joined by two more members the second day that they spent in the camp. The first was a woman of pale skin and red hair. She was called Seero, and Rogero claimed that she was his aunt. She had bent for Daenerys, a smile on her face.

When Daenerys had tried to talk to her, she found the girl quiet and unresponsive. Rogero's face had gone dark when he asked him about it later. He had told her that his aunt had her tongue removed by an angered rival many moons before. That had left Daenerys thinking how horrible she had been for thinking that the woman didn't like her.

The second was a woman that she remembered from Vaes Dothrak. She was one of the crones of the Dosh Khaleen, the widows of dead Khals. Her hair was black and stringy, matted together from lack of care. Her skin was copper, but old and wrinkled, and her eyes black. She couldn't see Drogo in her, but she claimed to be his mother. Her sun and stars must have inherited most of his appearance from his father.

She spent a night with the mother of her Drogo, but the woman spoke few words of the common tongue, and the Dothraki she spoke was a different variant from the one that Jhiqui had taught her many moons ago. Instead of talking, she had let the old woman brush her hair, which she seemed to enjoy. Both were given places on the council, but neither ever contributed much. When Seero wanted to interject something she would write it down on a tablet that her nephew had given her. This didn't happen very often.

"We no need to know history, khaleesi. You have dragon. Burn city."

"Yes, my young friend. This would be a good battle plan, if our khaleesi had a dragon to use to destroy the Qohorik. She does not, and that does not put us in a good position. The enemy has little to fear from a Mother of Dragons that doesn't have any dragons."

"In the days of old Targaryens used to be able to call their dragons to them with little more than a sound. Could the same not be true for you and your dragons, your grace?"

"Two of my children are confined beneath the great pyramid of Meereen, Grand Maester. The other... I do not know where he is. He will return to me when he desires to do so."

"Until he does we cannot make our move. Qohor has strong walls, and four thousand Unsullied, as well as mercenaries from Ib and Norvos. They have heard of our coming, and they have prepared for it. We should be thankful that the sellsword companies are all occupied in Slaver's Bay."

"The Golden Company sacked the city of Qohor once. Their walls cannot be too strong. We have fifteen thousand Dothraki screamers at our back. We can make our move now and destroy the Unsullied who stand in our way."

The Hightower knight was fresh faced, and she doubted if he had ever truly seen a battle. No doubt he had been trained by a master-at-arms back in Oldtown. He would not be prepared for what was coming.

"The Unsullied are not our enemies. If I could only talk to them..."

"We cannot afford to risk your life on the off-chance that you can convince our enemy to change sides. These Unsullied are not the ones that you liberated from Astapor, your grace. These are men who likely do not remember what it is like to be free. They know nothing but obeying the commands of their Qohorik masters."

"My Dothraki may not ride at the Unsullied head-on, khaleesi. They have all been raised on stories of the Three Thousand. Just being here does not sit well for them. The longer we stay the more likely we are to be abandoned."

"My sun and stars never let his men threaten him."

"And now he is dead, khaleesi. I am sorry for the bluntness. Me and Drogo never saw eye to eye. He was a strong warrior, but his stubbornness and desire to look strong and in charge was what got him killed. My men expect more from me. They would not be happy if I allowed them to stay here."

The opening of the tent opened then, and a Dothraki man stepped in, his copper skin bare from the waist above. This man wasn't one of Rogero's bloodriders, but still she recognized him from around the camp. He was one of Rogero's lieutenants, one of his enforcers who rode up and down the train whipping the walkers and forcing the slaves into picking up their pace.

"A new man has arrived, great khal. He says he is from the city. He says he is here to talk to the Mother of Dragons. Should I let him in, great khal?"

"We will see him outside, Karo. Come, khaleesi, let us greet your enemy and see what they have to say."

"The Kingsguard should come with you, your grace. I am here to stand at your back, should this Qohorik wizard decide to try any of their dark magic trickery to kill you."

"Ser Humfrey should come, Rakharo too, but the rest of you should stay here. Take me to our guest, Rogero, and let us see what he has to say. Hopefully he is here to offer us the surrender of the city."

"We would be so lucky, khaleesi."

The man that they met outside the tent was old and ugly. He was thin, with wrinkled skin sagging around his neck. His head was wide, with tufts of grey hair along the side of the scalp. His skin was yellowing. He wore a large grey robe that trailed behind him, with fur along the collar. His hands could be seen, however. They were as yellowing as the skin on his face, with long fingernails that were rough and sharpened.

The man went to kiss her hand, but Rakharo blocked his path. She didn't want the man's lips touching her skin. The skin was breaking and chaffed, and they were fatter than his form deserved. He retreated from her tall Dothraki, looking at Rakharo with a cautious look in his mismatched eyes.

"Name yourself, maegus."

Rogero had stepped forward, his right hand on his arakh, looking at the three Unsullied that had accompanied the Qohorik newcomer as if they posed some sort of threat. Daenerys knew that most Unsullied fought their battles as a group, but if these three were ordered to kill them then they would. The Qohorik wouldn't do it whilst he was here, however. They were safe.

"I am Marho, Assistant to the High Priest of the Black Goat, great khal. It has been some years since we last had a Dothraki khalasar at our gates. I was sent to find out what it was that you desired. Money? Women? Weapons?"

Rogero stepped forward again, but she put her hand out to stop him, and stepped forward herself.

"Do you know who I am, Marho?"

"Of course, khaleesi. I was younger when you were last here. Your brother was with you then. Viserys, was that his name? Pray, could you tell me whatever happened to him? I don't think that news reached us here."

"My brother is of no concern to you. I am here to demand the freedom of all Unsullied in your city, as well as the release of all your slaves, and the high priests to come before me and bend the knee."

"And pray tell, khaleesi. What makes you think that we will except such terms? We have seen bigger khalasars come and they have passed us by. The city of Qohor has stood since the days of the Freehold. Khal Temmo himself could not sack our city."

"I am not Khal Temmo, priest. I will give you one last chance to bend the knee and free your slaves, or I promise to you, in the name of my ancestor, the conqueror of Westeros, your city will be ashes. It's great history will be lost to time. Your people, your god. I will end them all. I am the Mother of Dragons-"

"Abandoned by your children, from the whispers I hear in my city's shadows. What is the Mother of Dragons with no dragons. She is just a woman. Qohor will not bend it's knee. Attack on the morrow if you wish. You will lose, and you will die."

"You speak brazenly for a man stood in an enemy camp, maegus."

Rogero had moved forward, his arakh half drawn, the steel flashing in the sun. She had seen it once before, the way the steel looked red when he held it some angles. It was like there was blood imbued in the blade itself. The Unsullied went for their spears, but Marho waved them down. His lazy eyes had widened now more than they had to anything Daenerys had said.

"I speak as an envoy of peace, not one of war, great khal. That is known. That is understood."

"You talked about my khaleesi being slain. That sounds more like the talk of war than of peace. That is what I understand."

"It is my regret. I did not mean to cause you offence, great khal."

She thought about what Marho had said. The Qohorik did have nothing to fear from her. Without Drogon, without Viserion, without Rhaegal. What was she without them? Did they make her the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea? Did they make her the Breaker of Chains, the Wonder of Qarth? Did they make her Mhysa?

That was when her skin felt a great chill, and a shadow fell over the tent. Some of the Dothraki went for their arakhs, the Unsullied went for their weapons once more, ad Marho's eyes went even wider than they had when Rogero drew his steel.

"Khaleesi..."

She did not need to turn around to know what had happened. She had called for him. She had called for her son and he had come. She could hear the deep breathing of the dragon that had taken it's seat behind her. It had leaned forward, and now she could see the dark scales of Drogon's head as he growled against the priest, baring his teeth. She cocked her own head, and spoke.

"You were saying, priest? Something about Qohor not bending the knee to a woman without dragons."

Marho couldn't speak. His jaw was open, revealing his yellowing teeth and his bulbous tongue. Daenerys walked towards the man. This time Rogero knew better than to try to stop her. She had her son back. She was no longer helpless. She walked straight past the priest, stopping in front of one of the Unsullied.

"Do you know who I am, friend?"

"Yes."

"You speak the common tongue."

"Yes."

"What name did they give you?"

"A man is Red Snake."

"Do you remember Astapor, Red Snake."

"Yes."

"Do you know what I did there."

"Yes."

"Would you like to be free?"

He had responded to the rest of the questions straight away, but this time his response was slower. He hesitated, and looked towards the priest, who still couldn't talk.

"Yes."

"Well then, friend. I hereby name you as a freeman of my army. Your two friends too. You are no longer Red Snake. You may choose whatever name you want. Do you have any objections, priest?"

Still silence from the envoy of peace.

"I thought not. Return to your line, friend. Spread the word that freedom awaits any who want it. All they must do is come to me before the morrow, and they will be accepted in, and from then they can choose their own future."

"Yes... Yes, kha- Khaleesi."

"Rakharo, take 5 of Rogero's men and ride with these men. Make sure they make it back to their comrades safely. Make sure they spread the word of freedom."

"Yes, khaleesi."

Her bloodrider left then, the three Unsullied leaving with him. She watched the boy go with some pride. She remembered when he had been smaller, when his braid had been so short that he could fit no bells in it. She wondered what had become of Jhogo and Aggo. She doubted that they would come when she wished it. She hoped that both of them had kept safe. She wished them to be with her when she eventually landed on the shores of Westeros.

It was only then that she turned back and looked at Drogon. He had grown even larger and stronger than when she had last seen him. His wings were mighty, and his neck thick and strong. The priest was still staring at the dragon that stood before him.

"Priest! Awaken from this stupour you find yourself in."

Marho dropped to his knees as she spoke, whimpering as he looked up into the yellow eyes of her child.

"Return to the city, priest. Tell them what you have seen here. Tell them that I will ride my child over Qohor at dawn tomorrow, unless I recieve word that the High Priest is willing to bend the knee to me."

Marho was grabbed by two of Rogero's Dothraki then, and was dragged away from the dragon. They stopped when she clicked her fingers.

"You wanted to know about my brother, priest. He burned. I will not hesitate to do the same to your city."

Then she turned her back on him, letting Rogero's men pull him away. She was glad to have the ugly sorcerer out of the camp. Rogero was looking at her with some awe as she walked back over to them. Humfrey was trying not to look the same, but failing.

"You were saying something about how the Unsullied would not surrender their masters, Grand Maester."

She knew that the others had been watching the scenes from inside the tent, and that comment meant that Marwyn stepped out. She had thought him ugly before, but now, having met Marho, she found his appearance relatively tame. Marwyn had told her that Maesters made a vow of celibacy, but he had also told her that he knew at least three Archmaesters that frequented whorehouses.

"Is this one of your dragons, khaleesi. It is truly magnificent. Not as big as they say of Balerion the Black Dread, or Vhagar the Monstrous, but still magnificent."

"You are not acting as yourself, Grand Maester."

She laughed slightly at the way that Marwyn was examing the scales of Drogon's right foreleg. She could tell that her child was curious about the little man that was buzzing around him. He was amused by it, but she told him that Marwyn was not a threat, and so he went back to resting his head.

"The Unsullied make up the largest part of the defence of Qohor. Turning some of them is a truly great victory, your grace."

Rogero frowned at Humfrey's comment.

"We will see how many of them actually come. We should sleep. Tomorrow may be a busy day, and you have given us an early time for combat, khaleesi."

And so they disbanded, but Daenerys Stormborn did not spend her night asleep. For the first few hours she sat on the back of her child, looking out at the lights of Qohor, and the lamps of the Unsullied as, one by one, they came to her. Red Snake past her first, laying his spear in front of Drogon's. With him were seven others, who gave her their spears too. Hundreds more would pass in the next few hours, of many different ages. Some of them had grown fat, like the Unsullied of Pentos, whereas others were still young. She knew what all of them had gone through.

After a few hours she left Drogon, who had drifted off to sleep, his head rested on the plushy grass. She returned to her tent, and sat, staring at the wall, thinking of all those that she had left and lost. She thought of her sun and stars, she thought of her brother. She thought of fat, old Illyrio, of brave and bullish Jorah, of smooth taling Xaro. There were some whose faces she had forgotten. All she could remember of Pyat Pree was the thin blue lips.

She remembered the face of Kraznys mo Nakloz, who had sold her Grey Worm, and Hero, and Marselen. She had burned him. She couldn't remember the names or the faces of the other Good Masters that had died that day. There had been too many.

"Khaleesi."

She turned to the opening of her tent and found Rogero stood there, still dressed in the clothes that he had been wearing from before. He wore his braid over his right shoulder. His eyes had sadness in them, but there was a slight smile on his face. His skin was darker than hers, but he was still paler than most of the Dothraki who followed him.

"You were very impressive today. May I come in?"

"You are welcome in here whenever you want, Rogero. It is your tent. I am just borrowing it. what brings you to me at this time?"

"A rider from Vaes Dothrak. Rhogoro has brought Zekko's head back to the Mother of Mountains. He claims that you are an enemy of all the Dothraki. I don't hold out much hope for Ikko and Rashato siding with us after this. The Dosh Khaleen have also named your husband's mother as an enemy, claiming she should never have left the temple. They are under the control of Rhogoro."

"You believe that destroying Qohor will show that I can be Khaleesi of the Khals?"

"I believe it will convince those that haven't already decided. Ikko and Rashato, maybe even Jommo. He was a friend of your husband's."

"Jommo betrayed you."

"Jommo is a braver man than you think. He has done more than any of us could know."

Rogero came over to the table and took the seat next to her. She couldn't help but notice his muscles. He was like Drogo. He was brave and brash like Daario, eloquent too, yet he was as raw as her sun and stars had been. He had been her first love.

"We have a few hours before you fly and I ride, khaleesi."

"And what would you suggest we do, great khal?"

He leaned forward and took her then, pressing his lips against hers. He smelled like man, tasted like man. He was as forceful as Drogo, as passionate as Daario. For a few seconds she kissed him back, but then pulled away. Was doing this betraying her sun and stars? Was Drogo cursing her from the Nightlands for this?

Rogero's lips were at her neck, and she felt him tenderly caress her skin with his kisses. He was passionate but careful and loving. She moved his eyes back up to her. There was a fire in them, a passion and a desire.

"Do you not want this, khaleesi?"

"I- I do. Let me get out of my riding wear first..."

Rogero rose and turned away from her.

"You- You may look at me."

"I want to delay the moment, khaleesi. That way, when I first see the most beautiful woman that the world knows naked before me, it will be all the sweeter."

She swiftly pulled down her own riding gear, until she was naked. She crept up behind him, and kissed him gently on the nape of the neck. He was shorter than some of the Dothraki, but still she could not reach him without standing on her toes. He turned to her when he felt her lips on him.

"You are more beautiful than I knew, khaleesi."

"Was it worth the wait, great khal?"

"Every second."

From then on was a blur. for some of the knight he took her from behind, as the Dothraki were custom to do, but then he let her on top, as she had done it with Drogo after Doreah had taught her. By the time dawn came she was laid on the floor of the tent in his arms. He smelled of man and sweat, the same way that Drogo had always done.

"We should go, khaleesi."

"Are you so quick to leave me?"

"Given my way I would not leave you now, but we must bring a city that has stood for a thousand years to it's knees. You have dragons to ride this morning, not just me."

She smiled at that, and kissed him again, rising from their makeshift bed and pulling on her clothes.

"Do not die on me, Rogero. I will see you again after this is done?"

"And by then you shall be the Greatest Khaleesi that the Dothraki have ever known. The Stallion that Mounts the World."

Daenerys smiled at the great khal as she left the tent. Outside stood Humfrey. She wondered how long he had been stood outside the tent, which caused her to blush. He surely couldn't have been stood there all night.

"Your grace, we have two thousand Unsullied who have come over to us. They all say they are willing and ready to fight."

"They will have their turn fighting. Not today. Today is for me and my child. Stand them down. Where is Rakharo?"

"Here, blood of my blood."

Rakharo was approaching her with a bowlegged swagger.

"Good. Take a hundred Dothraki. When people leave the city, run them down. Do not kill. Force them into surrender and bring them here. You understand that?"

"Yes, khaleesi."

"Humfrey, have Marwyn ready some poltices for the survivors. We want to be able to treat them quickly so we can get on the move soon after this is done."

"Yes, your grace."

"Good. I will see you both when this day is done."

She left them both then, striding past the Dothraki men who were saddling their horses. They all turned to look at her. She remembered them doing the same when Rhogoro trailed her throught the streets of Vaes Dothrak. There they had been accusing her, here they looked at her with awe and respect. She needed to prove these men that they were right to put their faith in her.

Drogon was awake when she found him. He was sat on the grass, staring out at Qohor. Did he know what was about to happen? Did he know what they were about to do?

She stroked his nose, and kissed his scales gently. They were warm. She mounted her child, and urged him into the air.

She circled above the Dothraki camp for a minute or two, looking down at the little individuals scampering around. She swore that one of them was Rogero, calling up to her. Then she turned her attention north, where Qohor sat, waking up from its sleep. She could see the line of Unsullied that blocked the Dothraki approach. It was smaller than it had been yesterday, but it would not matter. She had no intention of going through it.

Qohor was laid out in a similar way to other cities. The buildings were large and made of red brick. In the centre stood the main plaza, where the priests of the Black Goat would be gathered for their dawn prayers. That would be her first target. She urged Drogon on, and he flew with some speed.

The city was lazy in it's defending. Most of their men were stationed outside the walls, anticipating the first attack to be the Dothraki stallions. Drogon flew straight over them. He flew straight to where she wanted him to go.

The priests looked up when the shadow of the dragon hovered above them, and their screams started before she even said the command. She shouted it at all her might, so that Drogon might pick up on her power and strength, on her desire for revenge.

"DRACARYS!"

And then fire consumed them all.


	30. The Priest-King

The sea broiled around the _Lonely Light_ , flagship of Gylbert Farwynd. The Drowned God had called up a rage of storms and high waves since they departed from the faraway island of the Farwynd lords. Five ships had set sail from Lonely Light, with three more joining them from one of Gylbert Farwynd's vassals, Erik Seaborn, a noted captain from his brother's first uprising. _Balon had been beaten then_ , he thought, _and he was beaten the second time. The Drowned God had not favoured him. He had not been fit to wear the driftwood crown. Nor were his kin. Nor were his brothers. Euron and Victarion, both of them were ungodly men. Neither of them were kings._

"The kraken flies over Lordsport, my lord!"

One of Farwynd's sailors called down to them from the top of the mast. Krakens in Lordsport? What did that mean? Had Victarion returned and taken Pyke? They had been told that Euron intended to sail south to the Reach. They had recieved news of his victories on the Shields. That had been the last they had heard of the false king. Had he given up his conquests so easilt? Had he realised the folly of bringing the wrath of the golden lords of the Reach down upon him.

Aeron stroked his shaggy beard as he thought. On his right stood Gylbert Farwynd, who was as far from Aeron's appearance as could be. He was clean shaven, and lacked hair on his head too, though his eyebrows were thick and grey, freckled with white hairs. His eyes shimmered blue and green and grey, as if they were the sea themselves, changing with the emotions of the Drowned God.

"The kraken flies, my king. Your brother? Should I be fearful of being drowned in a cask?"

The lord's voice was rough and hard, as was the rock that he had grown up upon. Aeron had heard the unnatural stories of the Farwynds of Lonely Light that were told by the Ironborn captains that had been sodden in the ale of Lordsport, taken from traders out of Lannisport. He had not expected to have been welcomed by the Lords of the Lonely Light when he arrived, but even less had he expected to be welcomed with a crown.

"You say a godly man must sit upon our rock throne, my lord? Then I see no kraken to be more godly than you. I say we sail to Pyke and take the throne in your name. The Drowned God clearly favours you. Who else could float all the way from Old Wyk to my lonely rock safely? You are my king, Damphair."

He had denied the crown at first, but the Farwynd had been right. None of his brothers were fit to wear the driftwood crown. Balon hadn't been, and Euron and Victarion weren't either. Asha was a woman, even if a warrior, and no female could ever rule the Ironborn. She had fled the Kingsmoot, not long before Baelor Blacktyde. He, of course, had suffered Euron's wrath, whilst Asha had escaped it.

The crown of twisted driftwood was placed on his head as the ship pulled in to the chief harbour of Pyke. The Greyjoy castle had a mooring point for small ships, but no flagship could dock there without being dashed on the rocks. Iron Holt was situated at the only other lowlying port, but it was further from the castle of Pyke, and they had chosen to support Euron over a more godly choice.

A boy was stood on the pier when their flagship pulled into dock. He wore chainmail and carried an ax in his right hand. His arms were bulky, and his hair was black and shaggy, though he had no beard, and his clean shavenness was what suggested to Aeron that he was still young.

"You fly the flag of Greyjoy on your ships, my lords. Are you here to give us your ships?"

"I fly the flag because I am Aeron Greyjoy, boy. What right do you have to fly our kraken? Whose flag is it that flies over your town? One of my brothers?"

"It is the flag of Lady Asha, Damphair."

The boy didn't drop to his knees when he heard who he was. He hadn't lowered his ax either, and his eyes were fixated on the crown placed on Aeron's head.

"Who are you, boy?"

"Vickon Botley, Lord Damphair."

"One of Sawane's whelps? Take me before my treacherous niece, boy. Is she here in Lordsport?"

"Lady Asha is at Pyke with my uncles and brother. She left me and my brothers in charge of the port."

"Then arrange for me and my companions to be brought horses. We will ride for Pyke."

The boy hesitated. He seemed to be nervous. Good. At least his faith in the Drowned God made it hard for him to disobey the renowned Damphair. That pleased him.

"I am not sure if I am meant to send an army to the walls of my Lady's new castle..."

"Then give me ten horses and we will ride that many men there. That is hardly an army. The rest can stay here."

Vickon Botley bit his lip for a few seconds at that suggestion, but eventually acquiesced and took them to the Lordsport stable. He gave Aeron a black courser, whilst Gylbert took a white mare. Another one of the Botleys, Symond, decided to ride with them as an escort, so that they wouldn't be turned away at the walls of the ancestral Greyjoy castle.

"My niece wouldn't turn me away, boy."

Symond was more confident than his younger brother. He was strapping his saddle onto the back of his horse when he spoke, and didn't even look in his direction.

"She will if you are wearing that crown when you arrive, Damphair."

The boy was older and thinner than his younger brother. He was not as Ironborn, so Aeron didn't know why the boy was acting as overly-confident as he felt the need to.

The ride to Pyke was a hard one, mostly along the coastline, although they did ride inland for a few hours. It was afternoon by the time they reached the castle, and it was a further half hour before the gates opened for them. He had expected Asha to welcome him, but instead he was greeted by two hulking figures.

Symond dismounted first, and walked over to the two men, taking their hands in his and shaking them.

"Uncles, how is our fair lady?"

"She is better now that her beloved uncle has returned."

The man's voice didn't reflect the words that came out of his mouth. He was terse, as if Aeron's appearance was more of an inconvenience than a blessing. He wondered if Asha agreed. Maybe that was why she had not come to greet him herself, and she had sent these two Botley oafs in her place.

"Take me before the _Lady_ of Pyke. I demand it."

"If you wanted your demands to be listened to, King Damphair, then maybe you should have kept yourself far away on the Lonely Light. The seal skin Farwynds may call you king, but you lost all power here the moment that you placed the driftwood crown on the head of the Crow's Eye."

"I- I had no choice- The Drowned God-"

"Would have wanted a godly man on the Seastone Chair. Do you think the Crow's Eye is godly, Lord Damphair?"

"The captains-"

The second of the Botley men snorted at that.

"Most of those captains are the offspring of thralls. Who are they to choose our king? You chose to crown the Crow's Eye, and now you are trying to fix the blame elsewhere."

"If we had our way, you wouldn't be allowed anywhere near this castle, Damphair. Our lady, however, has requested that her nuncle be brought before her. You are to follow us to your assigned quarters, and stay there until you are called before the Lady of Pyke."

The Botleys then stood aside and let him enter the walls of Pyke. The castle was near empty. Here and there he saw Botley men sparring with Wynches, or Blacktydes laughing with men baring the badge of Harlaw. Asha had been busy then. She had recruited men from houses that were willing to support her and oppose the Crow's Eye.

He was taken to the Great Keep first, but they passed through that, and then across a stone walkway, one that he had walked over many times before. Never before had he walked across it as a potential enemy to the ruler of Pyke, however. Most of the Farwynd men had been told to remain in the courtyard before the Great Keep. Only Lord Gylbert and Erik Seaborn had been allowed to continue.

Erik was a large man, strong of arms and thick of legs. He had mighty white whiskers, and carried a valyrian steel sword at his belt. He had taken it years before from a trading ship out of Volantis, or so he said. The hilt was wrought gold, with a red ruby embedded in it. It may have been some kind of animal before, but time had withered it, and any markings on the gold were no longer distinguishable. The blade itself was rippled with gold and red patterns. It was truly a mighty blade.

Most Ironborn men preferred axes for their brute power and the fact that they suited strength more. They were a man's weapon. No man who watched Erik would be able to deny that he didn't wield his sword with the same ferocity, however. He used his brute strength and channeled that into his strikes. He was truly one of the most feared captains of the Ironborn.

He was also a boisterous drunk. When they had stopped at Great Wyk on their way to Pyke it had been Erik that ended up passed out on the beach. Despite his state, he had still been able to best three of his men in the finger dance the next morning. As each of them left him, holding their hands, he would laugh and call out for more wine. He reminded Aeron of Victarion, except he was less dour than the Iron Captain.

"I did not expect for us to be treated like villains when we arrived, Gylbert."

"What did you expect, Erik? Even if Asha wasn't here then we would have hardly been greeted by Euron's men. That was why we brought the amount of men we did."

The two Botleys led them up to a high up room in the Bloody Keep. It was a high vaulted room, with a large fireplace and a small bed in the corner. A plain wooden table had plates of salted meat and two wineskins. Gifts from his niece, he did not doubt.

"We will return when Lady Asha decides she wishes to see the three of you, my lords."

And with those words their Botley escorts were gone. Erik and Gylbert seated themselves at the table, with Erik drinking the wine, whilst Gylbert chewed on the meat. Aeron had some too. It was chewy, too much so for his taste. He distanced himself from them, standing at the window and looking down at the waves crashing on the rocks below. Balon had fallen into those broiling waters. It would have been a painful death, but at least he would be with the Drowned God now.

"The girl gives us sour wine and oversalted meat. Who does she think she is welcoming? We have a king with us, and two of the most feared captains of the Ironborn."

Erik's voice was loud and booming. He was incorrect, however. Gylbert may have been feared among the captains sworn to the Lonely Light, but most of the rest of the Ironborn looked down on the Farwynds. They considered them monsters and skinchangers. They were devils in human skin, sent by the Storm Gods to judge them. He had needed them. What use could he now have from their support if Asha was going to rob him of his crown.

"You are worried, Damphair?"

"I am still your king, Farwynd. You should address me as such."

Gylbert had his head rested in his hands, his elbows upporting him, pressed up on the table. His hands covered his mouth, but Aeron thought that maybe there was a flicker of a smile behind them.

"Do you intend to bend the knee before your niece, my king?"

"No woman should sit the Seastone Chair. The Ironborn will never follow her over the Crow's Eye."

"Did you see the Wynch men in the courtyard. Waldon Wynch supported your brother, but it seems that he is either dead, or has changed side. There were Merlyn men on the gates, Volmarks too. Blacktyde and Harlaw, also. The Ironborn are already following her. She has support. More than you do."

"Not to mention the Botley force. They seem to be bloody everywhere in this castle."

"And I think I saw Mormont banners flying above some of the ships in Lordsport. She is here with Northeners."

"Support from the Mormonts is another reason my brother's men won't follow her. She has support from greenlanders..."

"The Mormonts are as much greenlanders as you and I, Aeron. They know harsh winters, they know harsh invaders. We will see how she uses their men and ships in whatever war that she is trying to fight."

The two of them were right. Somehow Asha had conspired to have half the Ironborn follow her in taking Pyke, but it wouldn't be enough if his brother decided to take it back. He still had more ships, he still had more men, he was still a man, and Asha still had a cunt. The Ironborn would never truly follow her. She was fighting a doomed war.

"Would you have us bend the knee to her?"

"Did I say that? Why not marry the girl and unite your forces?"

"She is of my brother's blood-"

"The Iron Kings of old wed uncle to niece. They wed cousin to cousin too, if that was what was needed for the Iron Price to be paid. If that was what was needed to conserve the Old Way, to please the Drowned God, even."

"She is still Balon's daughter."

Asha was not an unattractive girl. She had grown to be a fine woman, but she would not want to wed him. She had Pyke. He had nothing that she could gain from having. The Farwynd force would hardly turn the tide in battle with the Crow's Eye.

"Victarion would have done it. He knew what had to be done what had to be done to win wars. Do you know, Damphair? Or will you continue to put all your faith in the words and wills of the Drowned God."

They were kept in that room for two whole days, and Aeron spent the entire time thinking about Gylbert's words. Was his faith in the Drowned God what set him up to fail on his claim? Would the Ironborn not rally around him for that very reason? He had hated the man he had been before. He had been lecherous and amoral, but was that what the Ironborn wanted in a king? Balon hadn't been that, but he had been killed. The Crow's Eye was closer to those traits, and they had rallied around him. Was that what he needed to be? Did he need to be more like Euron to make his claim?

The Botley brothers arrived to collect them late on the second day of their stay. They insisted they weren't prisoners, but Aeron had been refused permission to walk through the halls of the very castle he had been born in. They were visite by servants twice during the first day, and three times in the second. They brought them food and water, and took away their chamber pots, replacing them too. On the second day, they brought them new clothes. Aeron stayed in what he had been wearing, but Gylbert and Erik donned their plain leather jerkins.

"Our Lady is ready to see you, Damphair."

"I was told that two days ago. Why has Asha put off seeing me so long?"

"Mayhaps she doesn't want to smell your stench. Did you not change your clothes?"

"Not until I am free, Botley. Take me before my niece."

One of the Botleys grunted at that, and the other laughed. He knew their names were Lucimore and Sargon, but he wasn't sure which was which. They weren't twins, but they looked alike.

"It is not just Lady Asha that you will be seeing, Damphair."

The Botley that spoke left those words hanging in the air, as if they were some sort of veiled threat, but Aeron wasn't sure what he meant. Was the Crow's Eye here? Had Asha allied herself with him? Had he married her, as Gylbert had suggested he do? He could hear the squeak of a doorhinge far off in the castle. Euron was here. He knew it. That was what it meant.

He spent the entire walk to the Great Hall thinking of what he would say when he was brought before Asha and the Crow's Eye. How could he survive this? Euron had been willing to kill Balon to get what he wanted, would he do the same to Aeron? Was that his fate here?

Except it wasn't Euron that awaited him in the Great Hall. There was a line of five men stood before the seastone chair. Some of them looked familiar, but he wasn't sure of their names. The two Botleys went from the sides of Aeron and his companions and joined the five men. They were replaced by Merlyn and Botley men, who had axes and spears drawn.

It was Asha that broke through the line of men and stepped towards Aeron.

"Welcome, nuncle. I am sorry that it took so long for you and your guests to come before me, but I was awaiting some friends. I hear that you are no longer just Damphair. King Damphair is it?"

"King Aeron Greyjoy to you, girl."

"A King without a castle. Or have you come to take mine with your two companions?"

"I brought ships. Ships and men."

"Ships that are under my control at Lordsport, and men that I have housed in my barracks. You brought me more ships and brought me more men, nuncle. They hold no loyalty to you."

"They hold loyalty to my companions. To my supporters."

"And how loyal are they to you? Lord Farwynd, it is a pleasure to see you at Pyke."

That was a lie. No Ironborn found honour in entertaining the Farwynds of Lonely Light. They were a queer people. They were magic and monstrous. It was to Aeron's shame that he had used their support. He should have known nobody else would follow him.

"I should introduce you to my friends, nuncle. These are the men who are going to try you for treason. A formality, I assure you, but is it not the Ironborn way when a pretender king crowns himself?"

She was invoking a trial by nine? The Iron Islands had not seen one of them since the last Kingsmoot. Aeron wasn't even sure how they worked. How had Asha known about them? It would have been her uncle, Aeron knew. The Harlaw. The Reader. He would have told her about them.

"You have already met Sargon and Lucimore. They are joined by Tristifer Botley, the Lord of Lordsport, Sigfryd Harlaw, the Master of Harlaw Hall, Harlon Wynch, the Lord of Iron Holt, Greydon Merlyn, second son of the Merlyn, and Triston Farwynd, Lord of Sealskin Point."

The last name was left hanging in the air. The Trials were meant to be overseen by the greatest captains of the Isles. Triston Farwynd was hardly that. Had she brought him here just to intimidate Gylbert into bending the knee? Would it work out like that?

"Cousin? We are a long way away from your home. Did you sail all this way to declare for Asha Greyjoy?"

"I sailed here because I heard my cousin was making a fool of himself by declaring for an insane monk. I am here to make sure that you do not insure the destruction of the Farwynds."

Triston Farwynd was tall, like Gylbert was, and had thinning, brown hair. He was younger than Gylbert, but had the same eyes, the ones that changed colour and made him look more like the sea. The Drowned God had made these two have the gifts of the sight. What had he seen in the two of them?

"The Damphair has declared himself King. He has committed treason, and should be punished for it, my Lady. In the name of the king that gave us back our homes."

Tristifer Botley had a brave tongue for one so physically weak. Why had he been selected as one of the champions? He had always been close to Asha. Mayhaps he had offered his services in the hopes that a marriage would be on the table.

It was old Sigfryd Harlaw that spoke up next. He was the Reader's uncle, and had a long beard of silver hair, that went almost down to his knees. His voice was a whisper, reedy and old. He was a reader, like Rodrik, more than he was a fighter. There was a common trend among Asha's chosen champions.

"It would seem, my lady, that your beloved uncle has acted rashly, without knowing of your power. Mayhaps we should give him a second chance, however... It could be kinder to give him to the Drowned God. Less of our fellows would die if there was one fewer king for us to deal with."

Harlon Wynch spoke up next. He was the nephew of Waldon Wynch. Waldon had supported the Crow's Eye at the Kingsmoot. What fate had become of the Lord of Iron Holt? Had Asha had him killed for chanting the wrong name? Had he died in battle like a good Ironborn should? Was he, even now, rotting in one of Pyke's Sea Cells?

His nephew was short, with a full head of brown hair and full lips. He was young, younger than any of the others, even Tristifer. He was so young that Aeron doubted that he had ever captained a ship into battle, or even led one on a reaving.

"The common people love Lord Aeron, but they also love Lady Asha. Our question surely has to be who they love more."

"And your answer is?"

"I believe the people of Iron Holt follow me into supporting you, Lady Asha. The Damphair could be questioned as being insane. He has no claim to the Crown. He was at the Kingsmoot and chose not to press his claim."

"That is five of my captains that have decided that you are guilty of treason, Damphair. I give you and your companions bend the knee. I do not want you to have to die for me, nuncle. My father would not have willed it be that way."

He saw Gylbert and Erik exchange a look to his sides, and then caught them as they went down on one knee before Asha. It was Gylbert that spoke. Erik remained silent.

"You have the support of Lonely Light, my Lady. My ships are yours. My men are yours. My will is yours. What is dead may never die..."

The eight captains behind Asha answered in unison.

"But rises again, harder and stronger."

Asha knelt by Gylbert, and whispered something in the man's ear. He bent his head to her, his eyes closed. She rose.

"Your time now, nuncle. Bend the knee and be spared. i don't want to-"

"I would ask for one more night, niece. Let me ride to the sea and talk with my god. I want to hear what he has to say."

Asha smiled at him for a few seconds. It was an empty smile.

"As you wish, nuncle. Ride for Lordsport. Vickon will ride you back up tomorrow. I hope you come to the right decision."

And he did ride, on the same horse that he had used to ride up. He was barely half way to the town when he was overtaken by multiple riders. One of the large Botley brothers came to him from behind, and young Vickon Botley came from the direction of the town. They surrounded him, their weapons drawn. His horse tried to bolt, but he reigned it in.

"What is this? I was given permission-"

"Lord Aeron Greyjoy, you have been placed under arrest in the name of Lady Asha Greyjoy."

"For what crime?"

"The murder of King Balon Greyjoy."


	31. The Reader

The vineyards of the Arbor were large and expansive. The Ironborn had overrun the island a few days before. The Redwyne castle had been the last to fall. The Crow's Eye and his captains were there now, tormenting Lady Redwyne. Lucas Codd and the Red Oarsman were no doubt enjoying the time they had with the young Redwyne girl. They disguested Rodrik. The entire cabal that Euron had established around himself. They were all monsters and rapers and murderers. They brought foulness onto all their families, although he suspected nothing less than that from a Codd.

He had avoided the main castle for most of his time here. Instead, he had found himself shadowy places to read some of the books that he had brought south with him from Harlaw. They were some of his newer manuscripts. The older ones couldn't be brought with him, not without risk of damging them.

He had Marwyn's Book of Lost Books, and Ebrose's History of the Great Spring Sickness with him as he walked down the lines of vines and grapes that the Redwynes used as their source of income, the foundation for their famous wines. Many of their plantations had been set alight by the Crow's Eye's captains, but this one had survived.

He wasn't trying to avoid being seen for the sake of reading, however. The Crow's Eye had been trying to break up the powerful captains ever since they sailed south. They had each been sent away, under the command of a Euron man, to take the various outlying islands of the Arbor. This was the first time that the bulk of Euron's fleet had been together since the taking of the Shield Islands.

There was a small shack at the centre of this particular plantation. It was dirty and dismal, but was quiet and far away from the main castle. There was a small hill in between the two, which meant the shack was out of the vision of the castle.

There were armed men gathered outside, which meant that at least some of his allies had arrived for their meeting. He saw Goodbrother, Volmark and Blacktyde men gathered. They let him pass without a second look. They knew the Reader of Harlaw from just the first look. They didn't need the second.

The room inside had far fewer men, but it still felt more crowded. He was the last of their party to arrive, and took his seat beside his cousins, Harras and Boremund. The two were brothers, and you could tell. They were both tall and slender, but Harras was more a warrior than his brother was.

The table was rounded, and, besides the three Harlaws present, there was six other men. Sat opposite Rodrik was Gorold Goodbrother, with his thick grey mane of hair. He wore jerkins of red and black, the colours of his house. He was sat beside Old Dunstan Drumm, who's hair was thinning and white, and whose eyes were a queer red shade in the sombre light.

He knew that Dunstan Drumm would be wearing Red Rain at his hip, as he always did. Harras would be wearing Nightfall, the sword that Rodrik had given him when he had been knighted, the ancestral Harlaw blade. He had never been much of a fighter, but Harras was. He deserved to carry it.

"Well? We are all here now. We should talk quickly before the Crow's Eye catches us here. You know what fate would befall all our houses if he found out we were talking like this."

The impetuousness of youth. It was Maron Volmark that spoke. He was easily the youngest of the gathered captains. He had captained his ship in the Battle of the Shields, and had been given a poisoned chalice as his reward. He was beardless, with a shock of thick, black hair on the top of his head. His eyes were blue, like ice, but somehow radiated heat. He continued speaking.

"Asha Greyjoy has retaken Pyke. That shows that the Crow's Eye is weak. He has spent too long trying to win glory and not enough defending what is his."

The raven that brought news of Asha taking Pyke had only gone to Euron, but the news had spread aroun the Arbor like wildfire. Euron's reaction was different depending on the story you heard. In some he cursed Asha to the depths of the Drowned God's halls, in others he laughed, in others he even made no reaction, as if he had expected it. The Crow's Eye saw more than the present. That was what Left Hand Lucas Codd and Pinchface Jon Myre would have them believe.

"We should rally to my cousin. Take our ships and return home, return to Harlaw and Pyke and Old Wyk. Return to the Islands."

That was Harras talking.

"Asha may be your queen, Knight, but some others amongst us supported Victarion. We should wait for his return."

Boremund scoffed at that remark.

"Supported Victarion, did you? We all heard you calling out the name of the Crow's Eye, Goodbrother. Let us not change the events of that day to suit your agenda. Victarion has gone away to serve the Crow's Eye. We know not when he will be back. How long would you have us wait?"

Gorold scowled at Boremund's retort. It was true that both Gorold and Dunstan had called out the name of the Crow's Eye at the Kingsmoot, but then so had other champions of both Victarion and Asha. Dunstan spoke up next.

"If we were to take our ships then we would be overrun. Euron would just kill us as examples, as he did with Sawane Botley and Blacktyde."

That caused a cough from one of the other members of their cabal.

Bralon Blacktyde was not an old man, nor was he as young as Harras, Boremund or Maron. He had a thick beard of black hair, and dark eyes. He spoke rarely. He had a dark personality, and enjoyed the fight. He was the younger brother of the late Lord Blacktyde.

"My brother was murdered by the Crow's Eye. My nephew rules Blacktyde now. He has declared for Asha. How long do you think until the Crow's Eye has me killed like he did with Baelor? Not all of us have the same amount of time as you, Drumm."

Rodrik knew that he had to direct them in a way that would stop the bickering behind houses that considered themselves rivals. Harlaws and Volmarks, Blacktydes, Drumms and Tawneys. These were houses who disliked each other. They had to unify behind a common cause.

"Captains, we must find an agreement. None of us want to follow the Crow's Eye into battle, do we?"

"He murdered my brother in cold blood."

Bralon spat on the ground.

"That is what I think of Euron's Crow's Eye."

"It is common knowledge that the Crow's Eye killed King Balon. He is not a godly man, and I should not bend the knee to him."

"Here, here, Gorold. The Drumm force is not loyal to the Crow's Eye. The man is not to be trusted."

Another of their nine leaned forward. It was a small man, with a narrow face and short brown hair. He, like Volmark, was beardless, but his lack of facial hair was a choice. Little Lenwood Tawney was a renowned captain from the Isles. Tales said that he would play his fiddle as he sailed his ship into battle. Enemies would hear the sound, and would know who was coming. On misty days, it may be the first warning that they recieved.

"And how would you suggest we make it back to the Islands, Reader. Your niece holds Pyke, yes, but we are many leagues away. As has been said, the Crow's Eye would jump on us the moment our ships pulled away from the Arbor."

The last man responded to that point. He was the biggest of them at the table. Lord Raymund Sunderly, the Crow's Eye's own cousin. He had a mighty beard, a mighty axe, but an even mightier belly.

"We could trick them."

Gorold sighed. He had been against Sunderly being invited into this mini alliance. The man had called for Victarion at the Kingsmoot, but had called Euron's name after the speech.

"And how would we do that, Sunderly?"

Raymund's eyes passed over Gorold blankly. He was not known to be a very smart man.

"Get one of the loyal captains to lead us out to Three Towers. Kill him and sail north with his ship. The others will avoid us."

That comment caused some silence. There was a sense of surprise. None of them had expected such a good plan from Raymund.

One of the men from outside came in then, in a hurried fashion. It was one of Boremund's men. Rodrik could tell because he bore his cousin's sigil, the Harlaw scythe on the blue field.

"Speak, Erregg. What is it that brings you inside?"

"Banners on the hill, Boremund. Men ridin' this way I think."

"Whose banners were they, boy?"

Erregg's eyes moved to Gorold Goodbrother, and at first he hesitated, but then his confidence seemed to return.

"Myre, m'lord. Myre and Saltcliffe."

"The Crow's Eye's men. They know we are here. We are all dead!"

"Quiet, Dunstan. Take your men and make your way back to the castle. Avoid the main path. I will stay here with the Harlaw men. We will see what the Crow's Eye has to say to us."

Dunstan, Gorold, and Sunderly left quick enough. Maron stayed for a few seconds longer, his hand on his sword, as if he would like to fight, but he decided against it and followed his elders out through the back. That left Lenwood Tawney and Bralon Blacktyde as the others still here.

"You two should go."

"Should we leave you to your deaths, Reader. My Blacktyde men are ready to fight for my brother. We can spill Myre and Saltcliffe blood as our vengeance."

"And your men would be slaughtered in the process. I will not have the Crow's Eye write what happened on this day in blood. Not our blood, certainly."

Bralon hesitated, a dark look on his face, as if he was angered by having the chance to shed blood taken from him. It was Lenwood that put his hand on the man's shoulder.

"Come, friend. We will have our chance to shed their blood soon enough."

Lenwood turned to Rodrik then.

"Should you get out of this scenario with your life, Reader, will it be you that sends the next message? When should we next meet? By the morning's light tomorrow?"

"As soon as I know I will tell you, Lenwood. I will send Harras himself if that pleases you. Now go, or else Tawney, Blacktyde and Harlaw will lose men today."

Lenwood gave a curt nod at that, and he guided Bralon Blacktyde from the room. Rodrik seated himself at the table, and he unrolled a map that showed a map of the Reach drawn by a Maester from the Citadel some years before. It had all the names of the main castles and settlements of the region. There was Goldengrove, Old Oak and Red Lake in the north, forming a triangle. Below them lay Standfast and Coldmoat, and below them was the Stack House and then Highgarden.

There were holes in the map, where pins had been placed by past owners, marking battles and movements of armies. The most recent were placed over the Shield Islands, Brightwater Keep, and the Arbor itself. They had been the three places that Euron had successfully taken, as well as a few smaller keeps.

The closest castles to the Arbor were Three Towers, seat of the Costaynes, an old house, and Blackcrown, of the Bulwers. They had to be Euron's next targets. That had been what Rodrik had decided the night before, in conjunction with the whispers that Harras and Boremund had heard from the Crow's Eye's captains.

Was Euron preparing for an attack on Oldtown? Had he developed some means for him to enter the High Tower? He had read a paper once that talked of the magic placed on the High Tower in the days of old. It had never fallen to soldiers ever since the Hightowers took it. Had Euron found some way to break that?

"Studying maps, Reader. How very like a craven to play at planning for a war, whilst our king is actually doing it."

He knew the voice the moment that it spoke, and when he looked up he wasn't surprised to see Jon Myre stood at the door. The man had a matted brown beard and a large belly from drinking too much ale. There was a fresh bandage on his left hand, no doubt from where he had lost a finger dance in one of the castle's drinking houses.

"You call your liege lord a craven, Myre? Maybe you should learn to watch your tongue, or else your other hand will need bandaging too."

Harras had moved his hand to the valyrian steel sword at his belt. Rodrik could see the look of fear in the eyes of Myre and the two Saltcliffe men that backed him up. They knew of Nightfall then.

Rodrik waved his hand for Harras to step down.

"I am sure Jon did not mean it like that, cousin. He was merely suggesting, no doubt, that he believes that we three should be sat on King Euron's council."

"Is that what you meant, Myre?"

Rodrik could see the man thinking. He wanted to say no, but he could not out of fear of Harras. The Myres were a poor house. Their steel was no match for valyrian steel, and Harras was the quicker and stronger of the two to boot.

"I am sure King Euron would be honoured by your presence, Reader. It is for that reason that I have come here."

Myre was a short man. Rodrik could see Boremund smirking at the fact that he had to stand almost on his toes to make him seem taller.

"You have been sent to bring me to Euron?"

"I have been sent to tell you to rally your men and your ships. You set sail at first light. I was told to expect more men here than you."

So Euron knew that they had been meeting. That didn't surprise Rodrik. He had spent a lot of time at Pyke during the years after Alannys married Balon. He had come into contact with the Crow's Eye, who also had a fondness for the stories and songs of old.

"Then I will return to my ships. Where do we sail? Home to the Islands?"

"Your cousins should go to the ships. King Euron wants to see you in his own chambers."

Rodrik sighed. He had expected that too. If the Crow's Eye had known they were here, then the question was why he had allowed it. Mayhaps he did not know what they were talking of, and hoped that he could convince Rodrik to betray his companions.

"Then take me to him, Myre. Go, Harras. Go, Boremund. Rally our men, and I will join you soon. I can promise you that."

His two cousins didn't leave willingly. They were reluctant, but Rodrik assured them that he was safe. He himself wasn't sure what the Crow's Eye was planning, and wasn't sure if that meant that he had served his purpose in his plans. He would go anyway, for he did not want his cousin's blood spilled that day.

Myre had brought an extra horse with him down from the castle beyond the hill. It was a black courser. He mounted it, and rode behind Euron's captain. Curiously, no Myre men had accompanied him, but just Saltcliffe soldiers. Lord Saltcliffe was on the island. Why send Myre with Saltcliffe forces.

The Redwyne castle lay in the trough of a valley, with walls on two sides, and a sprawling town on the others. The Arbor had been a common target for Ironborn raiders in the times of old, and there had been many houses here before. Now only the Redwynes remained, but they had never fallen, not until this day.

He saw men leaving the castle as he made his approach. He recognised Lord Alyn Orkwood and Torwold Browntooth leading them. He saw Codd banners, as well as Orkwood, Merlyn, Goodbrother, and Sunderly, but Lords Gorold and Raymund were nowhere to be seen. He hoped the two of them had made their way back to their ships.

He found the Myre men soon enough, as two stood guard on each of the doors of the castle. That was a high honour for Jon's men. Rodrik wondered what Jon Myre had done to illicit such a large amount of trust from the Crow's Eye.

"Myre men, Reader. Do you see them? Myre men manning the doors of the king. If your ancestors could see this. The Harlaw brought before the king by a Myre. They would curse you, and mind would appraise me!"

Could it be that the Crow's Eye had manned the doors with Myre men just to intimidate him? The Myres and the Harlaws had been enemies of old. Was that his motivation? Was that all this was?

Myre took him through one last door, and he found the Crow's Eye, stood at the window of the lord's bedchamber, looking out on the troops as they marched towards the ocean. He was clad just in his underclothes, and had one foot raised on a cushioned seat.

"I have the Reader, Crow's Eye."

Euron turned to them, a wicked smile on his face. The crown that he had taken was placed on the desk in front of him. It was a hard object, made of iron and saltgems from the mines of the Hammerhorn.

"You have done well, Jon. Take your men and return to your ships."

"My king, I do not think you should be alone with him."

"I am not alone. They are with me."

Euron gestured deeper into the room, and Rodrik noticed two men that he had not before. The Red Oarsman was laid on the floor, his arms behind his head as he stared at the ceiling. Lucas Codd was seated on a chair, a young girl squirmin in his lap. She made no sound. She had no tongue to call out for help. The Crow's Eye had removed it.

"If that is what you desire, my king."

Myre left them then, slowly, as if he wanted to overhear whatever Euron had brought Rodrik hear to discuss. So Myre wasn't as much on the inside as he would like to have thought. What he said outside had all been a bluff.

"You were not alone in the shack, were you, Reader."

The Red Oarsman was the first to speak. He was laid naked, his cock shrivelled between his legs, his body covered in sweat. He had clearly just finished with the girl. Now it was Lucas Codd's turn to rape the girl.

"I was with Harras and Boremund. They are my kin-"

"Are Sunderly, Goodbrother, Tawney, Blacktyde, Volmark, and Drumm your kin too?"

So Euron had told the Red Oarsman. These men were definitely on the inside of whatever plan was being concocted by the Crow's Eye. Did they know where those men were marching? How had the Crow's Eye known they were all there?

It was the Crow's Eye that spoke up next.

"I am sure that my companions don't make you feel threatened, Reader. You know what they whisper behind your back. How you are craven and not truly Ironborn. I disagree with those whispers. A foolish man charges into battle, a clever man knows the history of battle."

Rodrik was surprised. Had the Crow's Eye called him here just to complement him. He knew the way they spoke of him, but why bring that up? What did he gain from it?

"You know why I have called you here, Reader. You have heard the other whispers. You have heard what they are saying about your niece."

"She is your niece too."

"Yes. Yes, I suppose she is. My niece."

Were the rumours true then? Had Asha taken Pyke from Ironmaker, Wynch and Botley? Was that why the Crow's Eye had wanted him?

"She has taken Pyke. I had expected this, truth be told. She is an impulsive girl, like her father. She takes what she wants."

"And what is it that you want?"

"The Redwyne fleet is sailing down the coast of Dorne as we speak. They have been slowed by our sorties, and by the winds."

Lucas Codd had thrown the girl to the floor besides him. The Red Oarsman had moved to take her from behind, and Codd stood, as naked as the day of his birth.

"Is that where the men are going? Do you intend to meet the Redwyne fleet in battle?"

"We would not be that foolish, Reader. The men sail for Three Towers and Blackcrown. You and the Harlaw ships will stay here with us."

"The Silence will not sail into battle at the head of the assault?"

"The Silence is a storm. It is the unbridled storm and the last storm. It should not be wasted on bottomfeeders like the Costaynes and the Bulwers. They are not worthy of it's pure, ragelike fury."

That was a strange answer for Lucas Codd, who wasn't usually so verbose. It was almost as if the Crow's Eye was speaking through one of his men. Why were Lucas Codd and the Red Oarsman now so trusted that they could be allowed to sit in on the Crow's Eye's meetings?

"I need your help to retake my castle from our shared niece."

"You want me to sail north? To talk to Asha?"

Rodrik tried to supress the hope in his voice, although, deep down, he knew it could never be that simple.

"No. Soon we will return to Pyke. When we are there I want you to negitiate a marriage."

"Between?"

The Crow's Eye's smile was more wicked now than it had been before, but it was Lucas Codd that spoke.

"Between our king and your niece, Reader. We have decided that she is a wife worthy of a king. We have decided that she will give our king worthy princes. When the darkness comes-"

"It is her that should be by his side. When the Long Night falls, every king and every lord will hope that their walls are strong enough-"

"Do this and you will be spared. You will be named King of the Iron Islands after the fall of the greenlands. You will be given power and knowledge beyond your wildest dreams."

There was something creepy about the way that Lucas Codd and the Red Oarsman interchanged their words. It was as if they were strangely in tune. There was almost something supernatural about it.

"Do this and you will know the secrets of life and death. You will live forever in a land worthy of your bravery and cunning. Do this and you will be worshipped as a god and a king."

It was Codd and the Oarsman speaking, but Rodrik couldn't draw his eyes away from the wicked smile of Euron Crow's Eye. His lips were blue and twisted, and behind them lay a hidden darkness. Behind them lay the secrets that the two captains spoke about. Behind them lay immortality.


	32. The Faceless Girl

The Faceless Girl sliced down on the beet that Umma had given her. She did it with some fury, and soon the cook servant had to come over to her and steady her hand. She spoke to her in Braavosi. The words sounded stern, but they were foreign to Arya. Even after all the lessons that the Waif had given her, she couldn't understand the fast flowing speech of the old cook.

"I don't understand you!"

She called out to the cook, tears in her eyes as she had to shout. The cook tutted and shook her head, as Septa Mordane had often done when looking at Arya's needlework. She pointed to the door, signalling that Arya's help on the cooking had been terminated. Arya left her, as she had been ordered to, and began to walk the halls of the House of Black and White, looking for something to do. Looking for somebody else, even.

When she reached the main level she heard a queer sound. It was the sound of a girl singing. It reminded her of the way that Sansa had always sung during their needlework lessons. Her and Jeyne Poole, with Beth Cassell lying below them. She had hated it at the time. She had hated Sansa, and Jeyne. Now she would have given anything to hear those songs.

The singing stopped when she looked for it, and she wondered if maybe she had just been imagining it. Maybe she had just imagined something she associated with Winterfell.

"The night is dark and full of terrors, wolf girl."

That voice shocked her, as did the touch of a hand on her shoulder. She turned quickly, her arms out in a defensive stance, her teeth bared, as if she was Nymeria, as if this was one of her wolf dreams. She was surprised by what she saw.

The man stood before her had a kindly face. His beard was long and grey, matted through lack of care. His eyes were grey too, and they shone in the candlelight of the main hall. He wore long red robes, that fell to his ankles and then trailed behind him. She could tell that, underneath these robes, he was skinnier than even her. His breaths were wheezing. His skin was pale, so he must be from the Free Cities, or maybe even Westeros.

"I have seen you in my fires, wolf girl. I have seen you leading a great pack into the last battle, wolves all of them. You are too important to be hiding in the darkness."

"Who are you? How do you know- Why do you call me wolf girl?"

"You are Arya, of House Stark, are you not? The wolf girl of the Faceless Men? I heard tale of you from a servant of mine, who serves me at the Temple of R'hllor. I was sent by Benerro, High Priest of the Lord of Light."

"I am- I am no-one."

"Are you, wolf girl? You don't sound all too certain about that."

"I am."

"That is a shame. I had need of Arya, of House Stark. Could you tell me where I could find her?"

"She is dead."

"Is she, no-one?"

"She- She is."

"I had heard that Robb, of House Stark, was dead, and the bastard, too. I had not heard of this latest sad news."

"Jon is dead?"

"Why would you care, no-one."

"I- I don't. Are you a trick? Did the Kindly Man send you? Was it the Waif?"

"I am no trick, no-one. I am simply a man here looking for the wolf girl who calls herself Arya of House Stark."

"Well, she is dead. You will not find her here. You should begone."

"If she decides to be dead no longer then tell her to come to me, no-one. I have heard news that may interest her."

"She isn't going to decide to come back. She is dead. She is dead. How many times do I have to tell you."

The man bowed his head to her then, and left the hall without another word. She watched him leave, and couldn't help but wonder what the news that he had decided was worth coming all the way here to tell Arya. When she turned back towards the pool she found the kindly looking man stood before her, his arms covered by the sleeves of his black and white cloak. There was a frown on his face.

"A girl turned a man away. What did a man want in the Halls of Him of Many Faces, girl?"

"He was looking for Arya of House Stark."

"Did a man find Arya of House Stark?"

"He did not. She is dead."

"You lie. Leave these halls. A girl must find three new things, then a girl should return."

"Why are we going back to this. I told him that I am no-one. I did what you want me to do. I did it. What more could I have done?"

"Did a man believe you?"

"He- He did not."

"Then you are still lying poorly."

She looked down at her feet, tears almost in her eyes. She didn't know what more she could do to prove to the kindly man that she had let Arya Stark go. She didn't know how she could prove that she was ready to be a Faceless Man. She wanted to prove it.

And so she left the temple to do exactly as he had said that she should. She knew where to go to find news. She could go to Brusco, and offer her help in sharing his wares, but she didn't want to see the man, or his daughters. She didn't want to be with them. She wanted to be alone. She would go to the Ragman's Harbour and see what she could find out there.

The city of Braavos was complicated. There were loads of side passages and dark alleys, and she had to cross innumerable bridges to get to where she wanted to be. The Ragman's harbour was dirtier than most other places in the city. It also stank. It stank of rotten fish and mouldy bread. It stank of overripe cheeses and of sour wine. But, more than anything, it stank of sailors.

The people did not see her as she passed. They were too good for her. She was as silent as shadow. She did exactly what the waif had shown her to do. She stuck to the walls, she stayed in the shadows. There were beggars looking for coins, pickpockets wandering the streets, sailors, as bawdy and drunken as ever, and, every now and again, she spied a bravo, or a courtesan being poled down the canals.

She liked the Ragman's Harbour. It was a place where she could hear Westerosi sailors calling out in the common tongue. Usually they were in from King's Landing, or Gulltown, sometimes from Maidenpool or Duskendale. It was not often that she heard the voices of Northerners, only ever when ships docked from White Harbor. Those were the ships that she looked for most.

She passed three ships from the Summer Isles, two from Pentos, and one in from Gulltown today. That was the only one from Westeros.

"Ever since the Iron Bank called in their loans, the ships of the great lords of Westeros have avoided Braavos for fear they will be used against them."

That was what she heard one of the Gulltown traders lament. The Iron Bank had called in her Westeros loans? She wondered if her father had ever taken a loan from them, and then she cursed herself. Eddard Stark was not her father. She was no-one. That cursed old man from this morning had caused her to slip up. Would the Kindly Man know what she had thought? It sounded ridiculous, but she did not doubt that she would be able to.

She reached the other end of the harbour then, and was surprised by one of the ships she saw docked there.

It was cog baring the stag of Baratheon, but surrounded in a queer flaming heart. She did not recognise the sigil from her lessons with Septa Mordane. It was new to her, but it was Westerosi. She could hear the common tongue being bandied around by her sailors.

"'Ere, Terrence. Do you know where Ser Justin wanted these boxes?"

"Ask 'im yoursel', why don't ya? He should be in the Sa'in Palace. Recoverin', he calls it. Wish I could recover around all them pretty girls."

The Satin Palace? She knew that place. It was perfumed and full of young girls who dreamed of the future. She wondered who this knight was that had this queer sigil, and decided to find out.

She trotted down the harbour, past the beggers and cuthtroats and the occassional unconscious sailor. The Satin Palace was a fine establishment, but wasn't a favourite of the sailors. It was too quiet fo their taste, and the girls were too delicate.

The matron of the place didn't even notice her as she stepped inside, she was too busy fussing over the handsome man sat to the side of the room. He had pale blond hair, and a suave smile on his face. At firstshe thought him to be Jaime Lannister, but she soon saw the differences. Whereas Lannister had golden blond hair, this man's mop was more silvery. He was less naturally handsome, but still had the attention of most of the girls.

This was, no doubt, helped by the fact that his leg was bandaged and laid on the table in front of him. She drifted towards the crowd, a small girl, faceless among her companions. Nobody even noticed her.

"Tell us tales of the battles you have fought, Ser Knight. Tell us, please!"

One of the girls asked him in a high pitched voice. He laughed slightly, and acquiesced.

"Have any of you ever seen a giant? No? I have. They are hulking creatures, wide, and as tall as twice the size of a tall man. They are covered in shaggy fur, and, instead of horses and swords, they ride into battle on mammoths with entire trees as their weapons, which they wield as mighty clubs. I fought them back in Westeros."

That caused an intake of breath from the girls, and one of them near fainted. She suspected he was lying, however. Old Nan had always told her that the giants were real, but her father and mother had said otherwise. There was one buried underneath Barrowton, Old Nan had said.

NO. She didn't know Old Nan. She didn't exist. Not in no-one's life, anyway. She had not been her wetnurse.

"There I was, facing off with one of them, nothing but my sword up against him. He swung his club at me, but I rolled underneath him, and drove my sword into his foot. He wailed and roared, and after some more slashes I brought him to his knees."

"Ser Knight, did you kill him?"

"Of course not, my dear! We are friends now. I ride into battle on his back and we bring down our enemies together."

That caused some more of the girls to giggle slightly.

"Was it in that fight that you got injured, brave Ser?"

He winced at that comment, as if hoping he wouldn't have to talk about it.

"No, my dear. I got that here. I was attacked from behind by a lion. He killed four of my men, and drove his spear down. He could have killed me too, but he clearly wasn't clever enough. Next time we meet, I won't give him a chance."

"A lion, Ser?"

"Ah. A Lannister. They are here in Braavos. I did not expect it."

The Lannisters were here? Was that true? Had they been thrown out of the Seven Kingdoms and fled to Braavos?

"I tell you. If I was face to face with Harys Swyft I would make that yellow fool shit himself and return to his mad mistress."

She recognised the name Swyft. They were bannermen to Casterly Rock. Maybe he was here with Cersei. She had to find out.

"Where are the Lannisters, brave, Ser? Do you know?"

"A few streets away, I think. They are here on Pentoshi ships that they seized in King's Landing."

She remembered the two Pentoshi ships that she saw in the harbour, and smiled, slowly leaving the crowd as they fawned over their wounded knight.

As she left the tavern, a thought hit her. She was all alone in Braavos. Would going to the Lannisters and killing them be the action of no-one, or Arya Stark? Would the Kindly Man know that she had done it? Of course he would. He and the waif seemed to know everything that she did whenever she left the House of Black and White.

She turned her head from the direction of the Lannister blase, and slunk back down Ragman's Harbour, back down the twisting alleys and bridges of Braavos, across bridges and small, secluded squares, back to the looming temple of the order of the Faceless Men.

She had no sooner entered the temple than _he_ appeared behind her. She wasn't sure how she knew he was there, because his breathing was hushed and his step was silent. She had just grown used to it.

"A girl has three things? A girl was not gone long."

"The Iron Bank are recalling their loans to the great lords of Westeros."

"Does a girl know why?"

She hesitated.

"They refused to pay."

"A girl lies, but a girl lies well. Better than this morning. Give a man a second thing, girl."

"Ser Justin Massey has arrived from Westeros. He has set his base in the Ragman's Harbour."

"A third thing."

"He was attacked by Ser Harys Swyft. Another Westerosi knight who is in the city."

"Good. A girl has done well. Follow me, girl."

The Kindly Man turned away from her with no more sound. He took her down the staircase, deep into the darkness. It was wet in places down her. She could feel it on the walls, and hear the dripping onto the floor. The passage they were on was unfamiliar to her, but it spiralled down, far below the kitchens of the House, far below her quarters, or where the waif had taught her Braavosi.

The Kindly Man carried on walking. There was no hesitation in his tread. He knew his way and he took it. He knew this path. He wasn't afraid of the deep, clinging darkness.

Eventually the spiralling stopped, and there was a pair of torches in brackets, next to a large door, made of ironwood. It was locked, but the Kindly Man used his keys, which he hid up the sleeves of his cloak, to open it, and when those doors pulled apart, she let out a yelp of fear at what she saw.

The room was high vaulted, with pillars and collonades. She wasn't sure where the space came from. Had they truly travelled this far underground? There were more torches, three of them to every pillar, and, even here, she could hear the drips of water as they fell from the high ceiling to the hard floor below.

What scared here were the faces. Their eyes were empty and their hair was gone, but they still seemed to be staring at her. Some were men with fat cheeks, others were prim and proper ladies with high cheekbones. Some of them were young boys, others were the wrinkled faces of old ladies. This was the secret of the Faceless Men and their inner sanctum.

"Why have you brought me here?"

"A girl is ready to see the truth, and be told the truth. A girl gets three questions. A girl gets three answers."

Was he testing her? Was he hoping that he would ask about what that red priest had meant about Jon being dead? Was that was this was?

"Who was Jaqen H'ghar?"

"A man was Jaqen H'ghar. A Lorathi diplomat. A man served the Sealord of Braavos as the voice of Lorath. He was a friend to the God of Many Faces. He asked for the gift of death."

"Who is the man that I know as Jaqen H'ghar?"

"That man was no-one. No-one like all the men you have seen in these halls, girl. He was a servant of the Many Faced God. He was a friend of the man that this man knew as Jaqen H'ghar. He took that man's offer and agreed to give the gift. A man was then removed from the order, for he was no longer no-one. A man became obsessed. A man was right?"

"Who- Who was Jaqen sent to kill?"

"Daenerys Targaryen."

Jaqen had been hired to kill a Targaryen? One of the last Targaryens that fled to the east? What had he been doing with Yoren then? Why had he been with her in Harrenhal, and why had he sent her to Braavos?

"A man said that the girl should be given the gift, as the gift was given to the slavelords of Valyria."

"You have told me this story already."

"A girl does not know the truth. A man has lied to her."

The Kindly Man had lied to her? What had he lied to her about?

"You told me the first Faceless Men gave the gift of the death to the slaves, and then the slave masters."

"A girl remembers well. That was the truth. They gave the gift of death soon enough. One of the first men who took the title no-one went into one of the dragonpits of the old lords. He blinded each dragon, and sent them into a rage. This happened in all the great pits of Valyria. The dragons flew and burned. The dragonlords died."

"You're telling me that the Faceless Men were the cause of the Great Doom of Valyria?"

"That is what a man is saying, little girl. The dragons fought each other to the last. They fought for days and weeks and months, some lasted years, but still they killed each other. The dragons died, and the slavers died with them, girl."

"What did that have to do with Daenerys Targaryen? The dragons have long been dead, even in Westeros."

"A man came to us. He told us of dragons and dreams many years ago. He told us of a book that would be written. He told us that a sliver haired dragon girl would be the mother of the dragons. A man you know as Jaqen believed him."

"So- He decided to kill Daenerys Targaryen to prevent the re-emergence of dragons? Why then was he in Westeros?"

"He followed the girl through the Free Cities. Her brother ran and she ran with him. A girl became a queen, and a queen had guards. He moved on."

"And why was he in Westeros?"

"A girl has had more than three questions. A girl has a job that she must do, if she must have more questions answered."

"A job? You are sending me to kill someone in Braavos?"

"No. A girl will travel to Norvos."

"What is in Norvos?"

"Not what, girl, but who. Daenerys Targaryen travels to the city. You will go and give the gift of death to them. Then you will get your questions answered. You are no-one, girl. Prove it."

"You will give me a face? You will give me a face to do th job?"

The Kindly Man smiled at her, and silently walked to the nearest of the columns. The face that stood at her height was an open one. It was honest, with olive skin, and black stubble. It was a man's face, a Dornishman's face. The Dornishmen had never visited Winterfell, but she had seen pictures of them drawn in the books in the library. She had seen pictures of Nymeria.

"Who was this man?"

"Who he was matters not, girl. You will use his face to kill Daenerys Targaryen. That is your job. Take the face and leave now. You will find a stable off Bridle Street. There you shall find a horse and you shall ride fast."

"How do I take the face? I cannot give the gift of death to someone unless the Many Faced God has his due."

She had turned away from the Kindly Man, to stroke the face of the man whose identity she must bare. When she turned, she saw him on his knees, a cup in his hands, filled with a black liquid. She did not know where the cup had come from. He was intoning something under his breath, words of prayer to the Many Faced God, she assumed.

She tried to stop him from sipping from the cup, but still he did it. The cup fell to the floor with a clatter, it's contents spilling over the cold stone slabs of the floor. The Kindly Man fell backwards, his lips still moving, but his eyes cold. They stopped soon enough, and she looked down at his body as he lay before her.

She grabbed the face from the wall then, and ran from the darkness. She hadn't realised how wet and sticky the floor had been on the way down. The darkness surrounded her, and all she could hear was the pounding of her heart, and her feet as they slapped against the hard stone beneath her. Why had he given his own life so that she would be sent away? Was he truly sure that she was ready? She wasn't.

She reached the room full of the statues of all the gods known to them. She saw the pool in the middle, and ran from it. She ran out of the great House of Black and White and she ran to the foot of the stairs, where she knew she would find it.

She pulled Needle out from it's hiding place, and felt the gentle balance and familiar feel of the sword that Jon Snow had given her. Tears formed in her eyes as she thought of everything that Needle was to her.

Needle was watching Robb and Jon and Theon Greyjoy spar in the courtyard of Winterfell. Needle was the smell of Mikken as he was working. Needle was Rodrik Cassell and his mighty whiskers. It was her mother, her sister. It was little Rickon and grey Maester Luwin. It was her father watching over them from the window of his room.

It wasn't just her family back home, though. It was Yoren too. It was Lommy and Hot Pie. It was the Hound and the Lightning Lord. It was Nymeria. It was Gendry. They had been people she had met, and some had been her friends. She missed them.

She missed Theon Greyjoy's thin smile. She missed Rodrik Cassell's kind face. She even missed Sansa and strict Septa Mordane. She missed Robb, and Rickon, and mother, and father. She missed Jon most of all. The way he had messed with her hair, the way he had smiled at her, with sadness in his eyes, the way he had let Bran beat him when they trained.

She looked away from her sword, and saw the slender frame of the waif looking down at her from the top of the steps. She thought for a second that the girl would come down and take Needle from her. She prepared to defend herself, but she didn't need to. The girl inclined her head slightly, and turned back towards the great doors, leaving without a sound.

What had that been? Had that been some sort of approval? She had expected the Faceless Men to punish her when they found out about how she hadn't got rid of Needle, but the waif had seemed to approve of it? Did she fear becoming no-one too?

The Kindly Man haf given his life because he thought that she had become no-one, but when she had felt most alone she had come here, she had come to Needle and to her memories. Did she want to be no-one? Was that truly what she wanted?

She stood up then, a hard look on her face. She knew what she had to do. She would kill Daenerys Targaryen, out of respect for the Kindly Man, but then she would return home, she would return to Winterfell to see Bran and Rickon, she would go to the Wall to see Jon Snow. She would even save Sansa from the Lannisters if she had to, but first she would be Arya Stark again.

She ran through the streets of Braavos, her black robes flapping behind her. She wasn't given a second look, and she wore the bravo's blade beneath her robes. She felt free as she ran, for the first time in forever she felt as free as the wind.

She passed the Ragman's Harbour. She passed the Pentoshi ships, and she passed the one that bore the strange flaming stag sigil. She passed all the taverns and winesinks, and when she neared the place that Justin Massey had said the Lannisters would be, she stopped. She slipped into a dark alley, and breathed deeply. She put the Dornishman's face to hers, and felt a slight tingle, but not as much magic as she had expected. She pulled her hadn away and the face stayed there. She could feel it slightly, but not much about her had changed. When she looked in a puddle on the floor, she was shocked to see that her skin was now olive, and she had facial hair where before there had been none. She was different.

She had to think of a story to tell them. She had to think of a lie.

She thought back to Maester Luwin's lessons of the Dornish houses. She was what he had called Salty Dornish, so she needed one of them. Sansa's favourite house was the Dalts of Lemonwood, though Arya knew that was only because Sansa adored lemons. She would be a Dalt, she decided.

But why would a Dalt be in Braavos?

She was a sellsword captain, she decided. Formerly of- Formerly of the Brave Companions, before Vargo Hoat became leader. She had left then. She had set out to make a name for herself alone, and was well renowned in the cities of Braavos, Pentos and Myr.

It was not hard to find the rooms that the Lannisters had taken to be theirs. They were large and at one of the finest inns near Ragman's. There were two men on the gates who wore red armour and bore the golden lion of Casterly Rock on their breasts. She walked over to them.

"'Ere, who goes there?"

"It's just a Dornishman, Hoke. Like as not he wants to fuck us."

She collected herself and started to speak.

"Brave sers, I am Ser Arys Dalt-"

"'Ere, Dalty. You don't sound very Dornish to me."

That was the first one. The one that the second one had called Hoke.

"I am Ser Arys Dalt. I have spent most of my adult life in the Free Cities."

"A sellsword are, ye? We have enough of them 'ere. Get gone, boy."

"I was hired by Ser Justin Massey to fight for his king."

She had not meant to say that, yet she had. The two men instantly moved their hands to the swords that they held by their sides. She went for Needle slyly, but she wasn't sure how much good it would do against their armour. If she only killed one then she would make sure it was Hoke.

"And I have decided I would rather switch sides. I have information that your commander may find useful."

"Interesting. Shortear, get your fat arse out 'ere. Go to 'Arys, and tell 'em that a Dornish boy wants to talk to 'im about Justin Massey and Stannis Baratheon. Says 'e 'as information."

The one called Shortear came out for a few seconds, and then went straight back in. Arya could hear the squeak of stairs. The guards were silent whilst he was gone, but soon he returned and she was allowed entry. She heard Hoke behind her.

"Fucking Dornish. Get everywhere, they do."

Shortear showed her up the stairs and along the next corridor. There were no Lannister guards here. It seemed that Harys Swyft wasn't tremendously well guarded.

Harys Swyft was not the man that she had been expecting. He was small and bald, with a short white beard. He had a protruding stomach, but Arya wouldn't call him fat. He was sat behind a desk. There were no guards in his room either.

"You may leave us, Shortear."

He was also trusting, it seemed. Maybe that explained the lack of guards.

"I was told that you brought news from Massey. How does he fare? I did not order the attack on him."

"He is recovering, my lord."

"Sit, sit. You wish to speak to me of the plans of Stannis Baratheon?"

"I would rather stand, my lord. What can you tell me of Lord Eddard Stark?"

"Not much. The man was a traitor. His son, too. Both of them lost their head, and- and rightfully so, if you ask me."

"What can you tell me of Catelyn Tully?"

"A traitor like her husband. Dead too, if the Freys can be believed."

"What can you tell me of Jon Snow?"

"The bastard? He was at the Wall last I heard."

"Is he dead?"

"How would I know. I must say, I am surprisde by this line of questioning."

"Eddard Stark died an unjust death, my lord. He was murdered by King Joffrey Baratheon and Ser Ilyn Payne."

"Now, I will not have you speak ill of King Joffrey like that. The man wanted to crown Stannis Baratheon. Eddard Stark was a traitor."

"Then so are you, my lord."

She took Needle from it's sheath with speed, and drove it into the heart of Ser Harys Swyft. The man crumbled backwards, and spluttered up blood. She watched him as he died. He had not killed her father, nor her mother, nor her brother. He had supported it though. Had he deserved to die like this? No man deserved to die alone and so far away from home, but maybe, just maybe, this brought a little bit of justice for her father.

She left then, through the window, as quiet as the wind.


	33. Patrek IV

The Mallister banner fluttered on the second of the flagpoles as Patrek looked out from the top of his hill. He had started coming her the second day that they had spent here, and had come here every morning since. He disliked the feel of the camp. He disliked the sound of swords clashing, and he disliked the sounds of men surrounded by other men. He found that this made even the most mild mannered man more vulgar and brash. He disliked men like that.

In order, the flags went Grell, Mallister, Ryger, Tully, Blackwood, Bracken, and then Frey. He was the nominal leader of this third of Edmure's raiding party, but Tytos Blackwood and Brynden Tully were his seniors. They both felt they had more of a say on when and how they began the march to the Bane Fort.

It was a long march, and would take them near a week to complete, with a tiresome siege on the other end. They would be at awares, as the Golden Tooth would have fallen, possibly even Oxcross too. They were waiting for supplies to come from House Grell and House Ryger, who were bringing them food and weapons. Most of the swords had been taken by Karyl Vance, who had left before them.

He was happy that they wanted a say in their decisions. Both of them were seasoned warriors. Brynden had fought on the Stepstones, and had led the Tully men during Robert's Rebellion after his brother was injured at Stoney Sept, and Tytos had fought on the Trident, back to back with Jonos Bracken. He felt their input gave him more authority with the rest of the men, who just saw him as one of Edmure's friends and lackeys. They didn't know that Patrek thought this invasion was a folly. The wrath of the Lannisters was well known.

Just ask the Reynes and the Tarbecks. He didn't want any songs being sung about the destruction of the Mallisters or the Grells, or of the Tullys and Blackwoods for that matter. He had seen enough destruction already in his short life.

When he looked down at the camp he saw the layout. The Mallister and Tully men were closest to him, with the Blackwoods on the right, and the Brackens on the far left. The Brackens were being led by Benjen Bracken, Jonos' younger brother. He had even more of a dislike for Tytos than Jonos did. In between those two factions were the small number of Grell, Ryger and Vance men that had come with him.

Patrek told them that this delayed wait was so that he could wait for supplies, but really he just couldn't decide what to do. Edmure had told him to take the Bane Fort and then press south, taking the Crag, Castamere, and Tarbeck Hall along the way. Patrek could still do that, but here he had enough men to liberate Seagard from the hold of the vile Black Walder Frey. If he was to take half these men there, take his home castle, free his father, and then return... Well, then they would have the supplies and more men.

On the other hand, he wasn't sure how the Blackfish would feel about going against the instructions of his nephew, and the Blackwoods and Brackens would be unlikely to want to risk their lives for the Mallister stronghold. Maybe it would be better if he took just the Mallister host and sneaked into the castle as they had done with Riverrun.

Except there was always the fear that Edmure, in his irrational state and with his poor advisors who cared little for Patrek, would declare him a traitor and an enemy, and that he would have to flee his castle and his home and go into hiding until his friend saw sense.

"You spend too much time up here thinking, my lord."

He was startled by the sound. It was a man's voice. Only two others knew of this spot, and only one of them was male. Therefore he could deduce that Ser Olyvar Frey had just approached him from behind. When he turned to see, he found the boy had a smile on his face. The colour had returned to his skin by the time they reached Raventree, and he had enjoyed his riding, so Patrek had put him in charge of the freeriders.

"We are both knights now, Olyvar. You need not address me as my lord. We are of the same rank and the same titles."

"I figure that after what my father did to all of you the least I can do is address you as a lord, my lord."

Olyvar was one of the sons of Lord Walder Frey, who had brought pain and blood down on the Riverlands with his accursed Red Wedding. Olyvar blamed himself for his father's actions, and had already promised Patrek his sword and shield should Patrek choose to ride for Seagard. Olyvar commanded no men, however, and, though he sat on the war councils, he had little say in their plans.

"You don't have to punish yourself for the crimes of your father, Olyvar."

"I fear that Bracken and Blackwood disagree. I see the way they look at me and Perwyn. They blame me for what happened, and would soon stick a sword in my back as soon as I leave it exposed to them."

"Let them try."

Olyvar smiled at him, and the two boys clasped hands. Olyvar pulled Patrek from his seat on the grassy knoll, and the two of them embraced. Patrek pulled away after a few seconds, and moved his hand to the knife at his belt. There had been reports of bandits in this area over the last few weeks. Frey caravans had been going missing during the Siege, and the heir to the Twins had died too.

The bandits may have done them a favour. That meant the new heir to the Twins was residing in a cell within Riverrun. The moment that Walder Frey died Edmure would bring Edwyn forwards and have him surrender the Twins to them. Perwyn was to be installed as the new lord, and the Frey threat would be ended.

"Oh."

The two of them turned to look at who else had stumbled on the scene. Patrek already knew who it would be, but Olyvar was taken aback.

Jeyne was wearing a red and black dress, donated to her by Tytos Blackwood. It had been one of his wife's, but she had died five years before, in birthing the youngest of Tytos' sons. The chain around her was the cream colour that the Westerlings bore on their sigil. It had been given to her by her mother just before they left to Riverrun.

"Leave us, Olyvar. Tell Brynden, Tytos, Benjen, and Perwyn that I want a meeting to discuss our next move."

Olyvar inclined his head to him, and then rushed away, not looking back at Patrek who stood before Jeyne awkwardly. He had never really spent much time with highborn ladies. Most of the girls he knew had been lowborn whores that he visited with Edmure and Marq Piper, back when he was Hoster Tully's squire at Riverrun.

"I didn't expect to see you here, my lady. Hoster told me you had decided to ride back to Raventree Hall last evening. I had assumed you would be halfway there by now."

Jeyne walked with a frail sense of prestige. She hated being around the camp, Patrek knew, due to the way that the others looked at her. Either they saw her as a piece of meat that they should be allowed to have or they saw her as a traitor. Already he had been forced to double the number of guards assigned to her protection twice.

"I want to be here when you ride for my home, Ser Patrek. I will not miss that day."

Patrek looked at the ground as she passed him.

"You know what I have to do when I get there, my lady?"

She turned to him, and forced him to look into her eyes. They were brown, and sparkled with the tears that she had shed in the last few hours.

"My mother was responsible, my uncle too, I have little doubt. My father was unaware. I beg of you to take him with you and give him a fair trial."

Patrek stopped, and tried to break her gaze, but he could not. He knew what it felt like to feel the loss of a father. He had not been told of his father's death, but every day that he was left to Black Walder was a day closer.

"I know you to be an honourable man-"

"It is not my decision to make. My king told me-"

"Your king is a fool, Ser Patrek. He thinks the lion of the Rock is weak because Tywin Lannister is dead? If the Kingslayer lives. His sister lives... The king..."

"He is your king too now. Edmure was my friend-"

"He was your friend. You are not so fool as to not see that he has changed. I did not know Lord Edmure well in the few weeks I stayed at Riverrun, but even I can see the madness in his eyes. You do not know what your friend's father did to him."

Patrek grimaced. He knew that she was right in some regards. Edmure was not the man that he had been before his sister's death and the tortures that he had suffered under Lord Walder Frey and then his grandson Ryman.

"Olyvar is not to blame for the crimes of his kin. Do not bring him into this."

"Nor am I saying that he is. He is not to blame for his father's sins, as my father is not to blame for my father's. My father is a good man, Ser Patrek-"

"I will talk to him before. I make no promises, my lady. I will talk to him for you before making my decision."

"That is all that I can ask for, Ser Patrek. You truly are as good a man as I said."

Jeyne walked over to him and took his hand gently. Her skin was soft and supple, but Patrek again tried to avoid her gaze. Jeyne was the widow of a king that he had followed. She was too soon a widow.

"Have you had news of my mother?"

The question threw him off slightly. He had received a raven whilst they were at Raventree, but he had been putting off sharing the information with Jeyne, Rollam, and Eleyna. He hated to disappoint people.

"I- I have. I had a raven. Your mother-"

Tears appeared in Jeyne's brown eyes.

"You don't need to say. I knew in my heart of hearts that it would be the case. Thank you for being honest with me, Patrek."

Patrek was taken aback. That was the first time that she hadn't referred to him with the title of Ser. Was she starting to get more comfortable in his presence, or was it just because she was knocked off from her usual poise by the news of her mother's fate?

"You know, if you were to kill my father then Rollam would be the new head of our house. Raynald- Raynald still hasn't come back to us."

Raynald was her elder brother. He had been one of the men killed during the Red Wedding. They had never found his body, but he was dead. No man could survive wounds and then withstand the force of the Trident. Patrek suspected that the Freys had found his body and mutilated it in revenge for the Westerlings forcing their hands.

"I suspect Edmure will name somebody else the Lord of The Crag. He dislikes your family, and Rollam would likely be dead if I hadn't stepped in. There will be places for you all at Seagard though, my lady."

Jeyne smiled at him and began to walk away. She dropped his hand as she did. She turned her head to him before she left his line of sight.

"You should be the king, Patrek. You are more noble than your friend."

Then she left, and Patrek was all alone in his private spot. He looked down at the camp and sighed. He had enough of war when it was Robb Stark fighting for justice, but now Edmure was leading his men into disaster for the same cause.

"Maybe the quest for justice is truly the deadliest quest of them all."

He said it wistfully, to himself more than anyone.

"Aye, I have often thought so myself. Justice and power. Many good men have died for those causes. Many bad men too, of course."

Patrek was surprised to hear another voice here. Olyvar and Jeyne were the only other people who knew he liked to come here. He recognised the voice though, and, as he turned, he wondered how Ser Brynden Tully had known where to find him.

"Foolishness too. That is the motivation behind my nephew's war. His own shortsighted bloodlust, and his desire to listen to inflated oafs like Jonos Bracken, and rotten apples like Hugo Vance."

The Blackfish was wearing his chainmail and riding armour, as he always did. Everyday he dressed for battle, claiming that there was the risk of Black Walder Frey riding down from Seagard, or that the same bandits that had killed Ryman Frey may come for them too. There were three thousand men here. Any group of bandits would have to be foolish themselves to attack.

"You have seen more of war than I, Ser Brynden. More of bad men too, I imagine."

"Aye, my fair share of bad men, I would say. I have met some good too. Eddard Stark was a good man, so was his boy. Your father..."

The words were left hanging in the air. Patrek wondered if the Blackfish would think Jason Mallister to be a good man if he were to know what fate had truly befallen Walton Frey.

"Your father was a good friend to my brother, and to me, when I met him. Hoster loved Seagard. He said the smell of the saltwater helped him feel alive."

"You preferred the mountains of the Vale of Arryn?"

Brynden smiled wistfully. He had been the Knight of the Bloody Gate for many years, Patrek knew. Until his niece had come calling.

"Aerys Targaryen was a good man once. Would you believe that, boy? He died a bad man, though. Life may not be so black and white that we can categorise between one and the other. Are all bad men purely bad?"

"I didn't take you for a philosopher, Ser Brynden."

That caused the Blackfish to laugh. It was a chuckle, quite unlike the loud bellows of some of the other knights in Patrek's company.

"Just an old man who has lived his life, and seen a lot of death. You come to think about these things as you get older. What makes a good man bad, and what can make a bad man to see the light of goodness."

"That doesn't seem like a terribly general question. Did you have someone in particular in mind?"

Brynden stared out at the camp for a number of seconds before responding.

"I was in command of the freeriders for my niece's son, do you remember?"

Patrek did, but wasn't given a chance to respond.

"We heard rumours of a group of outlaws who were active in the countryside during the fighting. They called themselves the Brotherhood. They were led by one Beric Dondarrion."

"I remember the man from King's Landing. He was at the Hand's Tourney."

Beric Dondarrion had ridden in the lists, and been moderately successful. Patrek remembered him sharing a drink with his father in the Mallister tent. They had discussed little, mostly about the heat of the Dornish Marches and the upkeep of Blackhaven, the Dondarrion castle. Patrel's father had broached the idea of sending a sun to squire for him.

"Indeed he was. He was then sent out by Eddard Stark to arrest and execute Ser Gregor Clegane. During the mission, it was said that Beric died. Yet there he was, commanding a group of bandits plaguing the Lannisters and the Starks alike."

"Why do you tell me this?"

"Before, the Brotherhood were talked of fondly for their charity and protection of the smallfolk. Now, well, their reputation has soured. I believe it was them that hanged Ryman Frey, and today I received a raven from Riverrun."

The way that the Blackfish said that didn't fill Patrek with hope for what was in the letter.

"What did it say?"

"Edwyn Frey is dead."

It was a simple statement, but Patrek knew the enormity of the death. If Walder Frey heard that his heir had been slain under protection. If Edmure had executed him-

"He had his throat cut in his cell. Whoever did the deed escaped, and they haven't been found. Edmure thinks a guard was responsible, and has refused to search."

"You think different?"

"I think Beric Dondarrion killed Ryman Frey. I think he killed Merrett and Petyr Frey too. Now I think he has had Edwyn killed in his cell."

Patrek thought on the question that the Blackfish had posed. What darkens a man's heart so much that they may resort to the brutal murder of a man in chains? That was not the man that he remembered sharing a drink with his father. What had caused Beric Dondarrion to change to that extent?

His thoughts were then broken by the sound of horns from the camp below. Brynden went for his sword instantaneously, and ran off, with Patrek following on his heels. He had only heard the horn blow once, and that meant friend, but anything could have happened to prevent it being blown a second time.

Tytos Blackwood joined them as they ran. There was no sign of Bracken. Men had already gathered at the gate, their swords drawn to face whatever threat might be about to storm the walls of their temporary camp.

Patrek had got himself so worked up about the prospect of bandits, or a Frey army that had marched down after hearing of Edwyn's death that he was surprised to see the men talk of the Ryger and Grell men. It had completely passed him by that these mystery men might just be their supply train returning.

"I saw flags and horses on the horizon, m'lord."

The lookout was one of the Blackwood archers that had come with them from Raventree Hall.

"What flags do you see? The towers of Frey?"

"No, m'lord. I see the birds of Grell."

So the men coming were Grells. They would be one of the supply runs returning. There was no threat here, and no surprise.

"And- and the silver bird of your house, m'lord."

The sentry spotted the eagle of Seagard? How was that possible? He had sent no Mallister men away with the Grells. They had gone alone. The only Mallister soldiers not in this encampment were holed up at Seagard. Maybe the Freys were trying some sort of trickery.

"Open the gates. We will see who these people are."

The gates opened quickly. They were nothing special, and would do little good for them if they came under a serious attack from outside. Yet despite their speed in opening them, the men on the other side were already there. They trotted their horses into the encampment. Patrek moved forward to show that he was the commander here.

"My name is Ser Patrek Mallister. Who is that it flies my father's banners?"

The knight that led the procession laughed, but it wasn't sinister, like the laugh of Black Walder Frey.

"A knight now are you, boy? Join the club."

When the man removed his helmet, Patrek recognised the face of Ser Gavin Grell, who had been the castellan of Seagard for many years. Last he had known, his father had sent him back to the Grell seat with Patrek's brothers and sister. What was he doing here?

"As for who flies your father's flags-"

A booming voice emanated from behind the leading riders.

"That would be me."

The riders then moved aside, revealing Lord Jason Mallister, Patrek's father, walking towards them. Patrek wanted to run forward and embrace his father, but he was surrounded by his men. Here was not the place.

"Father, I did not expect to see you here."

"That makes two of us, Patrek. Shall we find ourselves a more private place to talk. Gavin should come with us. Lord Tytos and Ser Brynden too."

Patrek nodded, and Jason walked to them. He embraced the Blackfish. They were old friends, apparently. He gave Tytos a nod. The two of them were friendly too, but Patrek's father clearly knew Tytos would not appreciate a thick embrace.

Patrek led the group of them to the centre of the camp, where the planning tent was set up. He sent two of his men to find Olyvar and Benjen, and found that they were both already there when the group of them arrived.

Jason swept into the tent after him, with Olyvar, Brynden, Gavin and Tytos coming next. Benjen held up the rear. He had only just woken up, that much Patrek could tell.

It was Bracken that spoke first.

"I thought you were holed up in your castle, Mallister. Weren't you a guest of Black Walder Frey?"

"The Frey did indeed hold my castle, Bracken. He is gone now."

"Is he-"

"No, Patrek. He is not dead. He left."

Patrek was confused. Black Walder had taken a lot of joy from tormenting the people of Seagard and the Mallisters that he had under his thumb. What could possibly have convinced him to leave? Had he gone after the people that had killed his father? Was he nearby now, waiting to strike?"

"I have brought news."

The Blackfish moved forward.

"We know, old friend. Edwyn Frey is dead. We do not need to be told."

"I was right to think that you did not know the whole truth then. Edwyn Frey is just one of the things I have to tell you."

Jason stopped then, and looked towards Olyvar, a flicker of distrust in his eyes. Patrek felt like he should speak up for him.

"Olyvar can be trusted, father."

"I am sure he can, Patrek. I am not sure how he will take this news. His father, Walder Frey- Walder Frey is dead."


	34. Sansa II

Sansa was riding her mare, the Hound just behind her, with Lothor and Mya leading the way. They had been riding for four days after leaving Saltpans. Lothor said that he was suspecting that they would arrive at Riverrun within the next few days. They had passed the ruins of Harrenhal a few days before. She remembered that Petyr had been the Lord of Harrenhal in name, but the Baelish flag didn't fly above the castle. Instead she saw the lion of Lannister and a purple and white sigil that she didn't recognise.

She wondered when Petyr would even arrive at his castle. If he would ever. Quincy had told her that Baelish and Robert Arryn had been arrested, along with a few other supporters of the man that had saved her from Joffrey. She wasn't sure how she felt about Petyr. He had saved her, but last night Lothor had told her that he had been using her, not helping her.

"I don't know what his exact plan was, but he wasn't your friend. He was willing to use you. He offered you to me before he told me to look after you. I am fairly sure he was willing to give you to Shadrich."

They had been sat besides the fire. Lothor had been opposite her, Mya cuddled up to him. The Hound was to the side, hiding in the shadows of the trees, his face half shrouded in the darkness.

"He wanted me to marry the heir."

She had said. Why would Lothor have been lying about this.

"Eventually. He wanted to break you first. He wanted to make it so that you would do whatever he wanted you to. He has a history of doing that. There was another one. A boy. He was given to Lyn Corbray until his spirit was broken."

She had gasped at that, and had tried to choke down the sick feeling that came over her at the thought of that poor boy. Lyn Corbray had been a handsome man, but he had scared her. He was quick with his steel and quick with his sharp tongue. Lothor had told her that Corbray was dead, and she couldn't quite believe it. Who would have been able to overpower his valyrian steel?

"We shouldn't talk of such things before the night, Lothor."

That had been Mya. She had seen how the talk of Baelish had upset Sansa. The two of them had grown closer since they had left Saltpans. Mya disliked the flat land of the Riverlands. She mistrusted the plains and preferred to stick to the forests, but even then Sansa could see her yearning for the rocky mountains of her home. It was like there was something missing from her heart.

That had been last night. Lothor had put out the fire soon after and the four of them had tried their hardest to sleep in the cold. For Lothor it was easy. He had been a hedgeknight for so long that sleeping in the cold and dark was no trouble for him. Mya was cuddled up next to him, and so went to sleep next. Sansa always struggled, and she was sure that the Hound sat up all night, watching the forests around them.

The two of them hadn't really talked since they had found that each of them was alive back at Saltpans. He had explained that he hadn't been responsible for the destruction of the town, and had then been silence. Sansa could see that there was something eating him up too, but he was less easy to read than Mya.

She wondered if he regretted leaving Joffrey during the Battle of the Blackwater. He had been treated as a dog then, but he had a home and a roof over his head. He wouldn't have been hunted for a crime that he never committed if he was still in the Red Keep. Did he feel free now, or did he feel foolish?

Or did he feel nothing at all?

She looked behind her and saw him looking at her. Their eyes met, and she quickly turned away, a flush on her face. Had he known that she had been thinking about him? Did he remember the song that she had sung for him on the night of the battle? Did he ever think about that moment, as she did?

"Little bird."

She looked up and found him riding on her right side. He was thinner than she remembered, but the horrible burns were still there. He had scared her when they first met, but now she knew that a man's appearance was nothing to fear. Joffrey had been beautiful, but he had also been a monster. The Hound had offered to help her. Tyrion Lannister had chosen not to harm her. Monster lived on the inside, she knew that now.

"There is something that I have not told you, little bird."

She caught her breath. Was the Hound about to tell her the secret that he had been keeping from her ever since they had left Saltpans. His face was blank of expression, but that was how she always remembered it from the Red Keep. She chose to remember that, instead of the look of fear that he had worn when he visited her after fighting during the Battle.

"It is no easy thing for me to say. It has been so long since I was afraid. I almost died, but death does not scare me. You sang for me when I was last afraid, so now I should sing for you, little bird. I should tell you the truth."

What did he mean that he had nearly died? He hadn't told her that before. Who had been strong enough to almost kill the Hound? His brother, maybe? She knew that Joffrey had sent Ser Gregor looking for the Hound when he first vanished. Tyrion had asked him about the Hound after the Battle of the Blackwater, but she had decided to be brave and protect the man. She owed him that. He had tried to save her from Joffrey.

"Your sister is alive."

She almost stopped riding when she heard that. She turned to stare at him. What did he mean her sister was alive? Did he mean Arya? The Queen had told her that Arya had died trying to escape the city. Of course, now she knew not to trust anything the Queen had told her. But- But how could Arya have survived?

"Where- Where is she?"

Sansa had never got on with her younger sister. Arya was everything that she had not been whilst the two were growing up. Where Sansa was beautiful and elegant, Arya was scruffy and small. Where Sansa enjoyed gosipping and needlework, Arya had enjoyed riding and running with Bran and Robb and Jon Snow. Where Sansa had been perfect, Arya had been... Not.

"I don't know."

With those three words, the Hound brought her back to earth. Of course her sister was gone. There was no way that she could live this long. There was no way. She was only a girl. At best, the Hound might know that she had escaped the city, but he couldn't possibly know any more than that.

"We travelled together for a while. The little bitch left me to die, but she is a tough one. I would bet my balls that she is still alive somewhere."

The Hound had travelled with her too? Where?

"How- How did she escape the city?"

He was silent for a few seconds, as if he was thinking.

"Bitch told me once. Some black bastard took her out of the city. He made her dress up as a boy, so she said. Friend of your father, if I recall."

Could it have been- Surely not- Why would Uncle Benjen have been down in King's Landing? Still, it made sense. Who else had her father been close to in the Night's Watch? Could Uncle Benjen be somewhere in the south, too, looking for his brother's two daughters?

"Was she with-"

The Hound cut her off.

"No. She said that Amory Lorch killed the man on the way north. Lorch is a cunt. Men have to kill, there is nothing sweeter, or so I thought."

What did he mean by that? Had the Hound changed? Had he lost his bloodlust? How Joffrey would have shouted had he known that his dog had lost his desire for murder. The thought of Joffrey being angry caused her to smile, and then she felt bad for doing so. He had died a horrible death. He had deserved it, though, for what he did to Robb and mother.

Lothor turned his horse to them and called back. His voice was carried by the wind, and Sansa realised that she had slowed her pace whilst thinking of Arya and Benjen and Robb. Her family that she had lost.

"Mya sees an inn along the road. It grows late. We will try to get a room for the lady folk. I am sure me and the Hound will not mind a night in the stables!"

Sansa looked at the Hound, and saw the way that he grimaced at the use of his alias. Maybe he had outgrown that when he outgrew his bloodlust? Maybe now he would prefer to just be called Sandor.

They rode the last mile to then inn. The building was a stone structure on the bottom, and wooden on the top. A sign swayed in the wind, but Sansa could make out what was on it. A king brought to his knees. Someone had drawn a grey wolf besides him. Lothor turned his horse to her again, a worried look on his honest face.

"Torrhen Stark, my lady. The last King in the North."

She knew who Torrhen Stark was. She had attended her history lessons with Maester Luwin. She didn't need to be taught the history of House Stark.

"Someone has made it into my brother. A joke at his expense."

Lothor bowed his head.

"We need not stay here, if that is what my lady wishes."

Sansa's mare whinnied, and she stabled it with her reins.

"We should stay here. There are bandits in these parts. To sleep in the open would be unwise. Besides, I miss a bed."

"A wise decision."

Sansa looked up, slightly startled. She knew the voices of all in her party, and this voice was not one of them. She saw Sandor go for his sword.

It was just a woman talking to them, though. She was stood in the doorframe of the inn. She was an old woman, but stood tall. Her chin was knobbly and her clothes were dirty and covered in grime. Her hair was a faded grey, and she had a mole on her left cheek. She was a crone, more than she was an innkeeper.

"There are bandits in these parts, 'tis true. You would be better coming inside and spending the night."

Lothor made a move towards the stables.

"But first, you must give your weapons over to my husband."

Lothor bristled at that, and a two more figures appeared at the door. The first was a man with sallow skin and a pocked face. He looked ten years younger than the crone, yet he must have been the husband that was being referred to. The other figure was a plump boy with a nest of straw hair. He was brandishing a pitchfork. Some good that would do against the steel of Lothor and Sandor.

"Why should we do that?"

Lothor had turned his horse to face the woman and her family.

"We dislike strangers, brave ser. You are more than welcome to risk yourselves against the bandits in these here parts, but I warn you, many a man they have hanged for being a Lannister man."

Lothor frowned. He was a poor liar, Sansa thought.

"We are no Lannister men. We are travelling mummers-"

"Headed for Riverrun? It is well known that Lord Edmure- sorry, King Edmure, dislikes his singers. Furthermore, there are not many mummers that travel with ready steel, and with a noble lady, no less."

Sansa was taken aback. Maybe she had judged this woman too quickly. She was perceptive. How could she have known that she was a noble.

"Calm down, dear. I heard your friend refer to you as my lady. We are a discreet inn here. If you don't want nobody to know then nobody will be told."

Sandor pulled on the reins of his horse.

"We should not risk it. If any bandits come at us in the woods then they can find an answer to my steel. We are protected."

Lothor hesitated.

"We have slept rough three nights on the trot, Hound. It would be nice to have some hay underneath me. The girls could do with a bed, too."

Sandor grumbled at the thought, but eventually condeded to Lothor. They booked one room, and it was decided that Sansa would share with Mya. Sansa went straight to her room, whilst Mya, Lothor, and Sandor stayed downstairs drinking.

Her sleep was a fitful one, full of dark shadows and muttered voices. She heard Joffrey and Cersei, then she heard Petyr and the voice of Varys, the spymaster. She saw the shadows of Meryn Trant, Boros Blount, Osmund Kettlblack, and Mandon Moore, but they were pushed back by a man in golden armour.

Then she saw a beautiful young man. He had golden blonde hair, and lilac eyes. He was playing the harp from a great throne of shining bronze. She was captivated by the beauty of the song, but then it turned to a succession of loud bangs and shouting. That was when she was woken up, a man's foot on her bare ankle.

The man that had hold of her was a young man with greasy, blonde hair. He was missing two teeth as he smiled at her, and wore some damaged armour that bore the mailed fist of one of her father's bannermen.

He dragged her downstairs and out of the inn. There she found nine or ten men gathered, with Lothor and Mya on their knees at the centre of a circle. Lothor had his hands behind his head, and his sword had been thrown to the side. He must have put up more of a fight than she had.

"You got the girl, Notch? This one put up a fight. Mudge lost two of his fingers."

The man that was speaking was stood at the head of the circle. He was big and well built, with a bushy beard, and he wore a great, yellow cloak that trailed behind him. When he smiled Sansa could see that his teeth were rotting.

The man called Notch pushed her to her knees besides Mya, who was staring at the ground intensely. She then realised that they had been followed out of the inn by the female innkeeper and her husband. The boy from earlier was missing.

"Did you get what you were looking for, Lem?"

The large man with the yellow cloak shook his head.

"Your boy told us that the Hound was sleeping the night here. Was he lying or were you mistaken, Sharna?"

"The man definitely called their other companion the Hound. He also called the red headed one my lady. How much is she worth to you?"

"Very little. We have no need for the whelps of minor lords and landed knights. We wanr Freys, Boltons, Lannisters and Starks."

Sansa yelped at that, and the big man noticed. He knelt down in front of her and stuck his face so close to hers that she could smell his foul breath.

"What scared you, girl. Who are you?"

"My- My name is Alayne Stone."

Lem laughed at that, and grabbed her tight by her hair.

"Alayne Stone, ey? What you doing so far from the Vale, bastard?"

"I- I was sent to Riverrun on a mission for my father, Lord Petyr Baelish."

Lem rose then and clapped his hands with glee.

"Lord Baelish, you say? The Lord of Harrenhal? The man that sentenced Ned Stark to death, and who refused to help the poor of the lands that he is supposed to protect? You will do, girl. We will see what our lady has to say when we bring you before her."

The boy from before came forwards then, surrounded by horses. There was ten of them. Sansa was placed on one of them, and the man called Notch went behind her. Lem ordered that Lothor and Mya were to be left behind. He had no use for them, it seemed. He had a use for her though. Whoever this lady was wanted to see her.

As the horses rode away she started to think of Sandor to try and distance herself from the cloying hands of her new companion, and of the smell of his breath as it came from behind. It felt horribly warm on the back of her neck.

Sandor had been with Lothor and Mya last time she saw him. They had been drinking, although Sandor liked Lothor little, and Mya mistrusted him. He must have been out of the building when these men attacked. He couldn't have gone to the stable to sleep either, or else the boy would have turned him in. Maybe he was in the woods. She hoped that he was with Lothor and Mya now. Maybe they would be following her new companions to wherever it was they were taking her.

It was the dead of night by the time they finished riding, and they were deep within a thicket of trees.

There was somebody waiting for them when they dismounted. She couldn't make out their face in the dark.

"Did you get the dog?"

Her ears pricked at the stranger's voice. It was familiar. It was Northern.

It was Lem that answered.

"No. I think the boy was lying, but Sharna insists that he was there. We got a girl, though. She claims to be the bastard of Lord Baelish."

She heard the new man spit on the ground at the sound of Petyr's name. Clearly he wasn't a very well thought of man in these parts. She wondered what he had done to earn the ire of this new man.

"Let me have a look at the girl before we deliver her to our lady."

She saw Lem approaching before anyone else. He was carrying a lantern, and soon that illuminated the face of the man that she was with. She was so surprised that she recognised the man that she let out a second yelp.

"Sansa? This is not Lord Baelish's bastard, Lem. This is Sansa Stark, the rightful Lady of Winterfell. Do you remember me, Lady Stark? I am Harwin. I was one of your father's men."

She had not expected to see Harwin here. She remembered that he was one of the few men that Jeyne Poole and Beth Cassell had considered to be handsome at Winterfell. She had never seen it then, but she saw it now. He was a familiar face, and she was so happy to see it.

"Of- Of course I remember you, Harwin. You were my father's man. I am no lady, however."

"Your brothers are dead. Your sister is missing. You are Robb's heir. We should take her before our lady as soon as possible. She will want to speak with her as soon as she can."

Lem grunted whilst Harwin helped her dismount. He took her hand, which the old Sansa would have thought was quite forward, but now she just accepted.

The walk with Harwin and Lem was probably not a long one, but it seemed to take her an age. She stumbled at least four times. They had only been riding for a few hours, but the shock of finding a face from Winterfell was getting to her. She had never even considered that Harwin would be alive somewhere. She just assumed he was dead, like Fat Tom, or Vayon Poole.

She studied his face, and started to see what Jeyne had seen in him. He was stronger and leaner now than he had been, and his face was long, like her father's. He reminded her of home, of the strength and warmth of Winterfell. That was something that she wanted back.

They travelled through the trees silently, asides from her whimpering whenever she tripped on a root, or stumbled forwards. Lem was clearly annoyed by how slow going they were, but Harwin just carried on looking forward. Sansa thought that she could see fear in his eyes, but she wasn't sure of what he was afraid.

"You have to prepare yourself, Lady Stark. What you see in this clearing may horrify you. Stay strong. I am here to protect you."

Lem had strode on ahead, but Harwin had stopped. He looked at her with concern, and she gave him a curt nod. She had seen horrors. She had stared into the eyes of Joffrey, watched the Mountain butcher men, watched Ilyn Payne take her father's head.

"I am ready."

Her voice was empty. She wondered what was in that clearing that had caused Harwin so much fear for her. Suddenly she wished that Lothor and Sandor were here.

On the other side of the trees was a large empty space, filled by numerous men. Many of them wore dented armour or dirty rags, some bearing the sigils of houses from all across Westeros. The spoils of war, she realised. They took their clothes from the fallen. For some reason the thought made her feel sick. She wondered what kind of burial the men that they had stripped would recieve afterwards.

At the centre of the clearing was a woman with her back to the three of them. She was wearing a dress of black, which had a hood that covered the back of her head from view. She turned when Lem grunted.

Sansa let out a yelp when she saw what was beneath the hood. The skin of this woman had been clawed away by something sharp, and her skin was the colour of curdled milk. Her hair was red, and her eyes empty. She looked like she should be dead. Who was this woman, and what did she want with her?

The woman raised her hand to her throat and spoke, though what came out didn't sound like the common tongue. It was gargled and impossible to understand. Lem knelt when she had finished, and started speaking himself.

"We captured the girl on the road, my lady. She claimed to be the bastard daughter of Petyr Baelish. We now know her to be Sansa Stark. Harwin recognised her."

The woman hissed at that, and walked over to her. She didn't smell pleasant, but Sansa knew that she shouldn't show that she thought that. She had to keep herself calm and ready for anything. Who was she?

She did the gargeled talking thing, and Harwin turned to her. There was a look of pity in his honest eyes.

"I have been asked to recite for her. My lady- Lady Stark asks me to tell you-"

Sansa was shocked.

"Lady Stark? I thought you said that I was Lady Stark."

Harwin hesitated, and swallowed something down. He let out a deep breath.

"Sansa- My lady- My lady is your mother."

Sansa was shocked. She turned to look at the corpselike crone for another time. She saw it now. She saw the auburn hair of House Tully, her mother's maiden house. She saw her mother's kind eyes. She saw her mother's fair skin. Then the woman before her turned back into the monster. What had happened to Catelyn Stark. Sansa started to cry at the thought.

"Sansa, my lady- My lady believes that you were responsible for your father's death- We heard you were with the Lannisters- Is it true? Did you marry the Imp?"

Sansa couldn't get the words out at first, but eventually they came.

"Yes. Yes. I married him. I had no choice. They said-"

She was cut off by a wail from the woman that had once been her mother. Harwin turned to his lady and shook his head.

"My lady- We cannot- She is your daughter-"

Lem pushed him aside then.

"You heard what our lady said, Northener. Let's not let the pretty face of your childhood friend sway you from our mission. The girl will hang."

She screamed herself then, and the tears came full and thick. Her mother was going to have her killed? She probably deserved it. She had killed father. She had let Joffrey live when she could have killed him. Did she have Robb's blood on her hands too?

"If you ride on, my lady, me and Notch can deal with the girl. Go. We will wait for her to die and then ride after you."

The group then dispersed. Harwin left her too, after a while. He couldn't look her in the eyes. Had he known that this would happen when he took her to the clearing? Had he walked her to her death? Did he blame her for what happened to all the other guards? Was it really her fault?

The men called Lem and Notch didn't take long over getting the noose ready. That was the piece of rope that would end her. She tried to face the moment with some dignity. She didn't beg them to spare her, but she couldn't stop herself from crying.

They placed a stool beneath the noose, and Notch led her to it. It was Lem that tied the rope around her neck, and then tightened it. It was he too that kicked the stool from under her. As she ran out of breath her life flashed before her eyes. She saw father and mother as they had been when she was younger, she saw Arya as a baby, she saw Robb and Jon Snow playing in the yard. She saw Ser Waymar Royce and his father when they visited Winterfell. She saw Robert Baratheon, Jaime Lannister and Sandor Clegane ride into her home. She saw Joffrey laughing at her pain, five white knights stood behind him. She saw Margaery and her grandmother, Jeyne Poole crying, Petyr smiling at her, Robert playing, Myranda looking at her slyly, Morgarth, Byron, Shadrich and Brandon gathered around a table. Then she saw darkness.

Then she was falling.


	35. Arthor II

Arthor was the only Kingsguard man stood up for guard at that time. It was late. It was dark outside, and the cold wind whipped at the side of the tent. Stannis Baratheon was still up, however, but the candle that he was using was near burnt out. Still the king scribbled on his parchments, however.

He was writing letters to all the lords of the North, talking of his victory over the Freys. Half their army had fallen in the frozen lake nearby, the other half had been massacred. One of the Frey leaders was dead, killed by some Umber traps near to the walls. Two full blooded Freys had been taken prisoner. There was the big one, and then there was the boy.

The big one had been given to the care of Ser Godry, who held him in his own tent. He had been defiant at first, but whenever Arthor walked past he could hear the moans and whimpers. Godry was a master of the darker aspects of persuasion, it seemed.

Arthor had been given the boy, however. He was told that he would serve as his squire. The boy was small and fox-faced. He had deep, black hair, and the weasel chin of Frey. He said to call him Walder Frey, but Arthor preferred to call him boy. He refused to leave his side and, even now, was curled up in the corner of the tent, sleeping.

The Freys had killed Karstark men at their Red Wedding. Those that had chosen not to switch sides at the last minute, at least. Those numbers had included people that Arthor had known his entire life, people he had trained with in the courtyard of Karhold, people who had served him meals. They were dead now.

He didn't hold it against the boy, as most of the North did. Arthor had to keep him out of sight of the few Northern Lords around them. They would call for his head or draw their steel at the sight of him.

"Your boy sleeps, Karstark. Do you not want rest too?"

Those were the first words that his king had spoken in hours. Not since he had sent Pylos off with the ravens for White Harbor, Greywater Watch, and Castle Cerwyn, calling for Lords Manderly, Reed, and Cerwyn to join his cause.

"My place is by your side, my king."

"You are little use to me there if you are not rested, Karstark. Take your boy and sleep."

"I will leave you when Horpe comes to take over, my king. Not sooner."

There was a wry smile on the face of his king. Stannis was not an easy man to please, but something had evidently amused him.

"My brother once told me of the stubbornness of the Northerners. I have felt more than enough of that since I landed at the Wall. You are a credit to your people, Karrstark."

"You honour me, my king."

Stannis put down the quill that he had been using.

"I heard that the Watch solved their own problems. Ser Denys Mallister has been named Lord Commander, and Bowen Marsh has been named a traitor and has died. What do you think of that?"

Arthor shrugged his broad shoulders.

"Events at the Wall are little concern to us, my king. We should concern ourselves with Roose Bolton and his bastard."

Stannis nodded, the stern look returning to his face.

"The defeat to the Freys and disappearance of the Manderlys have damaged the Bolton forces. I have sent Robin Potter at the head of a party to Castle Cerwyn. Hopefully Lady Cerwyn won't be as stubborn as the rest of you. I do not hold out hope."

Arthor was silent to that. He knew that his king liked to muse his thoughts out loud when it became late. Stannis had been successful in the last few weeks. The defeat of the Freys was important, and Torrhen's Square had declared itself for him in the last few days. The news of the fall of the Dreadfort was an important one, too.

Just then Ser Richard Horpe strode into the tent, dressed in his dented, grey armour. They would receive armour befitting the Kingsguard when they arrived in King's Landing, Arthor had heard. Whever that eventually happened.

"You can go now, Karstark. Take your boy with you. I will send Pylos to wake you when we hear that the party from the Dreadfort is returning."

Arthor bowed his head to Stannis.

"My king."

Then he left, taking Walder Frey in his arms and walking out, into the snow. He took the Frey boy to his tent, and laid him down on the rags that he slept on in the corner. When he went outside to have a piss, he found people waiting for him.

One of them was the thin Bastard of Hornwood, and the other was the elderly drunk, Ser Bartimus. They had come from Wyman Manderly's secret camp to the north of here, but Arthor had no idea why.

He took his cock out and started to piss before they could start talking. This seemed to upset the bastard, but the older one was unfazed.

"Good evening to you, Ser Arthor."

"You are sober?"

That surprised Arthor. bartimus had been drunk everytime that Wyman had sent him into Stannis' camp to talk.

"I needed to be. This is an important message I have to relay, and is dark news."

"Then what is it?"

All of Manderly's messages had a habit of being cryptic. He wasn't sure of that was the way they were sent, or whether Bartimus just liked to mess with him.

"The Princess Shireen is dead."

That wasn't cryptic at all, and it caught Arthor off guard. He was acutely aware that he was holding his cock as they talked about his king's daughter being dead.

"One of the Blackwood men had been following Selyse Baratheon's party. He saw them being attacked. He saw the girl be raped and then burned alive."

"By who?"

"Who do you think? The Bastard of Bolton."

Larence finally gained enough courage to talk.

"He is a monster. What he did to my mother..."

There was silence for a few moments, nobody wanting to break it.

"How should I tell Stannis?"

"You shouldn't."

Old Bartimus was steely faced as he said that, and Arthor couldn't read him. He had never thought much of the man, but it now occured to him how capable he must be for him to be the right hand of Wyman Manderly. Maybe there was more to him than he had ever seen before.

"We think Lord Bolton will send a messenger offering Princess Shireen in exchange for something. When the meeting happens to exchange, then the Baratheon men sent will be massacred, and any nobles will join Stannis' wife in the cells of Winterfell."

"That still doesn't solve my problem, Bartimus. When that messenger does come, how am I meant to talk Stannis down from accepting the offer?"

"You need to ask for proof that the princess is alive and that Roose has him. That will buy you time at least. We hear that Castle Cerwyn will soon be yours. You just need to buy the time that it takes you to get this army from here to there."

He bit his lip as he thought. How could he convince Stannis to wait for days when it came to saving his daughter? Why couldn't he just tell his king the truth? What did Manderly gain from delaying the delivery of the news? Bartimus wouldn't be asking for him to not reveal the truth unless there was something that Manderly and his group got from it.

"I'll see what I can do. You should get out of the camp before the sun comes out. The darkness can act as a shroud as you escape."

Bartimus and Larence left then, and Arthor went to his bed. He had lied to himself when it came to not needing sleep. His bed was hard, but it didn't take him long to drift off.

When he did, he was met by dreams of his family. There was Uncle Rickard holding his head beneath his arm, Torrhen and Eddard covered in dirt and maggots where their eyes should be. Their skin was yellowing and peeling off the bone. Their hair was dry and grey. They reached for him, and touched him with their skeletal hands.

Then came Harrion, who had joined his dreams in recent days. He was always soaking wet, with seaweed hanging from him. His skin was bloated and pale. His eyes were empty, but not like in the case of Torrhen and Eddard. His eyes were still there, they were just- blank. They scared him more than any of the other things.

He was awoken before anyone else could appear to him. It was the Frey boy that woke him, a cut of meat from the campfire in one of his hands, and a tankard of water in the other. He downed the fluid and started to eat the meat.

"Did you hear anything at the campfire?"

The Frey boy stayed silent for a few seconds. He was a nervous boy, and he didn't like talking.

"I heard that a Bolton man arrived this morning underneath the flag of truce."

He stopped eating then, and handed Walder the rest of the meat.

"Eat this, boy. We need to go. We need to get to Stannis before this Bolton does."

He strode through the camp. There was a crowd of men gathered outside the tent that belonged to the king. Robin Peasebury was stood outside, opposite Godry Farring, who was stood barring the entrance to the tent.

"I demand access, Farring. I am a friend of the king. I should be allowed to offer him my counsel."

Godry laughed.

"And yet he has not asked for your presence, Peasebury. Maybe you should rethink who your friends are."

That caused some laughter from the gathered soldiers, and caused Robin to flush as purple as a beetroot.

As he walked over the crowd parted before him. Farring eyed him with dislike, but didn't stop him passing. He knew that his place was at the side of the king.

Stannis was stood behind his desk. To his right was Richard Horpe. The only others in the room were Morgan Liddle and Rodrik Forrester. Rodrik was a tall man, with thick brown hair and trimmed facial hair. He had a stubborn look on his face as he glared at the man knelt before Stannis.

"You are just in time, Karstark. I trust you have heard that the traitor Ludd Whitehill is here serving as an envoy to his master."

Arthor nodded and then took his place besides Morgan. He understood why Rodrik was glaring at the knelt man now. There was ancient bad blood between the Whitehills and the Forresters. The Whitehills were Bolton men from before the War of Conquest. They claimed that Whitehills had served as Stewards of the Dreadfort before the Boltons became vassals of the Starks. A steward was no warrior, and that meant Whitehills tended to be seen as cravens by the other houses of the North.

"Ahh yes. Arthor Karstark, isn't it? I knew your grandfather-"

"We know. He was a traitor. He burned alive. Why shouldn't I burn you alive, Whitehill?"

Ludd gulped.

"I came here as an envoy of peace-"

"I understand that. You tell me that Roose Bolton has my daughter. You have failed to bring me any proof of that, though? Tell me why I should believe you? Give me a good reason why I shouldn't burn you right now."

"Kill me and your daughter dies."

There was some silence after that. Eventually Richard Horpe broke it.

"Was that a threat to the family of my king, coward? Should I gut you here and now?"

Stannis raised his hand, signifying that he wanted Horpe to stand down.

"Provided that Bolton does have my daughter, do you really think that he would waste that chip on a fat craven like yourself? You are nothing to him Whitehill. Thats why he sent you here. He doesn't need you."

Ludd Whitehill was left speechless then. He kept opening and closing his mouth, as if he wanted to say something, but he had been shocked into silence. It was Morgan Liddle that broke the silence eventually.

"Tell us, Whitehill. How did the Bolton bastard react when he heard the Dreadfort had been taken by Theon Greyjoy?"

"He- He- The Dreadfort has been taken? Theon Greyjoy is alive? We heard he had been-"

"Burned alive? Arnolf Karstark burned in his place. We found out recently that your master's bastard was the one who butchered the men of Winterfell. Would you care to consider switching sides now?"

Godry Farring stepped into the tent then. He had clearly resolved the conflict that he had been involved in outside.

"My king, the party from the Dreadfort has just arrived. Would you care to greet them and welcome them in?"

"Not now, Farring. Karstark, Forrester, go greet them. Take them to their tents and ensure them that I will speak to them after I am done here."

Arthor nodded and left the tent, Rodrik Forrester in tow. The group outside the tent had disbanded, and had instead gathered at the entrance. The Stannis' flag flew highest, joined with the flags of the Umbers, the Glovers, the Hornwoods, and then the Greyjoys. The kraken flew second only to the flaming stag.

The familiar flags of the Northern houses were joined by two new ones, however. They were flags that he didn't recognise. One bore three red birds on a blue field, the other a green willow tree.

"Houses Grell and Ryger?"

Forrester had stopped walking, a look of confusion on his face.

"I recognise them from the war. What are they doing here? They are southron houses. They have no right to be amongst Northerners."

Arthor was silent for a few seconds as he stared at the banners, and then moved forward, still in silence, not even acknowledging Rodrik enlightening him on the houses. He was upset with himself that what Bartimus said yesterday had been proved right. If Whitehill was sent then that meant Roose Bolton was confident that Stannis' daughter wouldn't be reaching the camp. That meant that she had to be dead.

He pushed his way throught the crowd of Glovers and southrons that had gathered around the main entrance to the camp. When there he found Branch men leading the line of the party. Benjicot Branch stood at the head of the group. They had obviously come as the advance party, scouting their way through the lands around Winterfell.

"Karstark, it is good to see you. Where is the King? I thought he would come-"

"The king is dealing with his own problems, Branch. I have been sent in his place. He assures me that he will be ready to thank all of you when he is done."

Branch smirked at that.

"That doesn't sound like Stannis Baratheon. We have won a battle, not a war. Is that not what he said after you beat the Ironborn outside the Motte?"

Arthor rose his eyebrow slightly in response.

"I wouldn't know. I wasn't there."

"Forrester was. Why so quiet Rodrik? Direwolf got your tongue."

Rodrik shrugged and stayed silent. The exchange was then interrupted by the arrival of one of Stannis' southron lords. Arthor recognized him as Robin Peasebury, the man that Godry Farring had been arguing with outside the king's tent earlier.

"I am sorry, Karstark. Did I hear you claim that you are the King's voice here? Am I being led to believe that our grace would give that honour to a dirty Northerner like you, when he could ask me, Lord of Poddingfield? You are little more than a hedge knight from a treacherous house."

Branch smirked at the words of the stocky lord stepping onto the scene.

"Lord Pea Pod, is it? Poddingfield is a long way from here, Pea Pod. Maybe you should return there? Winter seems to be too much for you."

Robin flushed a deep red at that remark. Benjicot was the uncle of the current Lord Branch, and no doubt being spoken to like that by someone that he considered to be a minor noble would cause his blood to boil. In the North your worth was decided by your strength and ability to survive. Things were different south of the Neck.

"I will not be spoken to like this by a common scout-"

Benjicot sauntered over to stand in front of Robin. He stood a foot taller than the southron. His hand was on the knife at his belt.

"And what are you going to do about it Pea Pod? Are you going to fight me? You're a bloody craven, and everyone here knows it."

Robin tried to stand his ground, and it even looked like he went onto tiptoes to make himself look taller at one point. It didn't work, and Robin had to stand down after a few moments. He had to stumble off to jeers from the gathered Branch and Glover men. There was little love between the Northerners and the southrons in Stannis' camp.

"Where are the others from the Dreafort?"

That was Rodrik, and Benjicot turned to him.

"They ride behind us. The Greyjoy rides with Arya Stark, accompanied by Mors and Wull, as well as our own southron companions, who, believe you me, are far more accomodating than the smug filth you seem to have to put up with here."

Rodrik laughed.

"They are only the way they are because their balls are being frozen off at the first sign of winter. That one is one of the worst though. At least Godry Farring has the strength to back up the way he speaks."

"Farring is a fool."

Those words came from the mouth of Mors Umber, who had just broken through the Branch men on the back of a brown stallion. Behind him rode Hugo Wull, and then came Theon Greyjoy and Arya Stark. The Greyjoy had his arm around the shoulder of the lady, keeping her warm from the cold.

"You took your bloody time, Umber. My men have been standing here for a long while waiting for you and yours to catch up with us."

Mors dismounted and walked over to their little gathering.

"Ned Woods encountered Bolton men. We had to wait for Grell and Ryger to ride off and aid him in fending them off. They returned swiftly, although not that swiftly. They ride behind us."

Two elderly knights then came into Arthor's view. He thought they looked weak, but there was spatters of blood on their armor, showing that they had recently been in a skirmish. Stannis should know that they had new friends.

"Which one of you is Arthor Karstark?"

That was the one in front of the other. He had a large belly and white whiskers. There were flakes of snow caught within it.

"That would be me, southron."

"We should talk. I have heard tales of what you have done for our king. There is much I should discuss with you."

The southerner dismounted and looked at him expectantly. Arthor sighed. He realised that when the southerner said that he wanted to talk, what he really wanted was for them to talk now. He looked in the direction of Forrester, who nodded that he was fine with Arthor leaving.

The two of them walked a fair distance out into the woods. Grell was surprisingly nimble for a man of his size. He was not as fat as Wyman Manderly, but nor was he skinny. Arthor was glad that the other southron, Ryger, didn't follow them. He didn't want to be outnumbered by strangers.

They eventually stopped walking beneath the branches of a pale weirwood. There was a face carved into it. It was not human, however, they were the eyes of a wolf. It's snout was clumsily carved beneath it, and it's mouth was full of pale, white fangs. Its eyes bled red, as if it was crying blood.

"You Northerners worship these, correct? Would you like to kneel?"

"For you, southron?"

"No, my friend. For your gods."

"My gods have done fuck all to protect me recently. Say what you have to say and we can return to camp. I am a knight-"

Grell nodded at that, and then interrupted him.

"Of the Kingsguard? I know. You are Arthor Karstark, son of Arthor Karstark, son of Arnelf Karstark, brother to the late Lord Rickard Karstark. I have been sent with messages for you. We have a common ally, it seems."

Arthor grunted. The southron talked too much. He should get to the point.

"I was sent to Stannis Baratheon by Lord Wyman Manderly."

That caught Arthor's attention. Wyman had Northern allies. The Glovers, Mormonts, Hornwoods, and Lockes all supported him. Why would he send a southron to Stannis over one of them?

"He wishes me to deliver news of some great victories achieved in his name."

"What victories would these be?"

"The retaking of Moat Cailin by Wyman's son and heir, the death of three members of House Frey, the rescuing of Rickon Stark by Ser Marlon Manderly. All these will help King Stannis in his goals."

Wyman had found and rescued Rickon Stark? The boy was missing, possibly even dead. How had Wyman found him, and why hadn't Bartimus told him that last night. Why was Desmond Grell the man telling him?

"You helped to take the Dreadfort?"

"I was present for the fighting, yes."

"Does Lord Wyman intend to reveal himself to my king now."

"If Stannis meets his demands."

Arthor laughed at that. It was a hearty laugh, and it had been long since he had last heard it. He had very little to laugh about nowadays. Winter was cruel to him.

"He will not take kindly to being given demands."

"Call them requests then."

Arthor grunted. This southron did talk too much. He could tell now that the man had been told what to say by Wyman Manderly. This was the exact way that he acted when he was trying to avoid details.

"Lord Wyman desires to be named as the new Hand of the King."

Arthor snorted.

"Ser Davos Seaworth is already Hand. Stannis is very attached to him."

Desmond grimaced.

"I regret to inform you that Marlon Manderly has reported that Davos Seaworth died on Skagos. Supposedly he was set upon by Stane warriors who tore him apart."

Arthor growled. He knew that Stannis would take this news badly. He valued the opinions of Ser Davos more than any others, and he had been holding out hope for his survival. Surely he would not name someone like Godry Farring as the new Hand. That would not go down well with the Northern followers that he had accumulated.

"What else?"

"He would also desire for his son and heir, Ser Wylis Manderly, to be named the new Lord of Hornwood and Lord Regent of the North until Rickon Stark comes of age. Wylis really has the best claim, and he would also consent to marry Wylis' eldest daughter to the Bastard of Hornwood, to legitimise the claim."

Arthor was unsure how Stannis would take that. He would be pleased to have the Stark boy, but no doubt he would prefer one of his own knights serve as the Lord Regent. The North, however, might reject their rule, and Wylis Manderly was at least a Northener.

"The last of Lord Wyman's demands is the most simple, Ser Karstark. He requires for me to be named to the Kingsguard. I have asked for the honour myself, seen as I have very little to live for in my home at Riverrun."

Arthor was surprised by that. He knew that a lot of southron knights saw being named to the Kingsguard as a high honour. He had received plenty of dirty looks from some of the knights Stannis had at his disposal, as they had been rejected a place for him, a Northener.

"I cannot promise anything, Ser. I will talk to my king about it soon. I will see what I can do."

Desmond smiled at him. It was a kind smile, though Arthor wasn't sure how genuine it was.

"That is all that I can ask of you, Ser Karstark. Do what you can, and, with King Stannis and Lord Wyman united, this war with Roose Bolton will end soon enough."


	36. The Red Reek

_*Author Note* Hi, readers and fans. I'm just leaving this here as an indication to you that the next few chapters will act as if they were the ending chapters of a book. The chapters will all be still uploaded to this story, but it will be split into three acts, sort of. This next set of 5/6 chapters brings the first act to an end, which has been used to establish some new key players, and to show the direction some characters are taking. After this act has finished the arcs of characters will start to collide more, as will happen in the actual story. Thanks for all the continued support to all the people who read my series regularly, and welcome to any new readers. I hope you enjoy, and thank you. *End of Note*_

She was crouched in the corner of the darkness. The floor was damp from her own piss, and stank wher she had shit. They brought her food once a day, but nobody came to clean her pen out. She could hear the sniffing of the hounds nearby to her, and the sound of them mating and growling in the night. Every now and again she saw the light of day when the one they called Ben Bones came to feed them.

It was him that brought her meals. She never saw his face, but he would slip the raw meat underneath the door. A bowl of water would follow, and she would have to lap it up. She had refused to eat the meat the first few days, but then Ramsay had come to her, and told her what happened to his pets that did not eat. From then on she had done anything Ben Bones told her.

Her master himself had come to see her three times in the three weeks that she had been here. He had spent the first day here, back when she defied him, back when her pen didn't stink. He had shaved her of her hair then. He had used a sharp knife and removed it from everywhere. He had shaved her head first, then her arms, then her cunt. He had taken care of it, telling her that his hounds had to be unblemished.

He had given her the collar on the second day. Ben Bones had made it for her, and Ramsay had said that she had to wear it at all time. She had resisted him when he tried to put it around her neck. He had slapped her for that. The pain had subsided after a while, but not quickly.

She wore the collar even now. It tightened around her throat if she moved too fast. As a result, she spent most of her days in the corner not full of shit.

They had taken her clothes too. It had been Damon-dance-for-me and Sour Alyn that had stripped her when they had arrived. They had taken her twice whilst Ramsay was gone, but she had heard him shout at them for that. He had said that men shouldn't fuck dogs, no matter how pretty they were. He had said that they were both too good for her.

She missed her robes. They would have protected her bare skin from the scratchy hay that she was forced to sleep upon.

The third time he had come to her was to tell her that Selyse was dead. He had stayed no more than a few minutes that day, as her pen had stank from a weeks worth of piss and shit. She hadn't cried at the news. Selyse had wailed for most of the journey to Winterfell. She had cost them meals and water. She had made the suffer.

He had also told her that Axell Florent, Selyse's uncle, had been sent south to King's Landing, under the watchful guard of some loyal Bolton men. She cared little for Axell. He was a smug man obsessed with a sense of power. He called himself the Queen's Hand. He was no more loyal to the Lord of Light than his brother had been.

The Lord of Light. She had been thinking a lot about him down here. She was surrounded by darkness, and yet he sent her no signal. He had left her alone. He had taken Shireen and Selyse and then just left her here. Where was Stannis? Where was Jon Snow? One of them had to come for her. One of them had to save her from the darkness and the ice cold eyes of her captor.

How could she put her faith into a god that treated her the way that her god had done. He had given her to Ramsay. Maybe that was part of his plan. Maybe she had to suffer as part of the process for Azor Ahai to come forward. Maybe... But still, what kind of plan would have his loyalest servant treated like little more than a pregnant bitch. That was all that Ramsay saw her as. She was one of his dogs, but one he didn't want to touch or take outside.

Her thoughts on her faith were interrupted when she heard clanking from outside the door. It opened, and she saw Sour Alyn stood before her. He was dressed in dirty rags, and had a knife strapped to his belt. He would use it. She knew he would.

"You don't 'alf stink, bitch."

He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. Alyn had a square head and rotting teeth. His breath stank, although she couldn't detect it over the stench of her own piss and shit. She looked down at the ground. She had been told not to look her visitors in the eyes unless specifically asked to.

"Look at me."

She looked up, and found her captor leering down at her. She knew that Alyn was just one of Ramsay's men, but he terrified her. He was a cruel, sadistic monster. She had seen him laughing at the tears of Devan Seaworth on their way to Winterfell. He had hung the ear that Ramsay had removed from Axell around his neck. He was a monster.

"What do you see, bitch?"

She wasn't sure how to respond to the question. She stayed silent.

"I asked you what you see. Who am I?"

"Sour Alyn-"

He smacked her around the head, and sent her flying to the floor. When she turned over she found him standing over her.

"I am your master, bitch. Everyone in this castle is your master, and they should be able to do whatever they like with you. I don't give a shit what Ramsay says. I want to rut you so hard you will have to crawl around your miserable cell for weeks after."

She tried to crawl away from him, but she wasn't fast enough. She could feel his coarse hands grab her by the legs and raise her from the ground. He held her to him in one arm, and unbuttoned his belt with the other, lowering his garments to the ground and revealing his member to her. She hadn't seen it last time he had taken her. He had done it from behind that day.

She could smell it's stench from here. It reeked off piss and sweat. He clearly didn't have chance to change his clothes very often. She rankled at it, and tried to pull away, but his grip was just too strong. He had her.

As he started to lower her towards his cock, she realised that the Lord of Light was asking her to prove herself worthy of being saved. Alyn had left the door open behind him. If she could get past him then maybe she could escape her cell and escape Ramsay. Maybe she could find Stannis and be safe by his side.

She then started to struggle again, but his grip was still too strong for her. She couldn't escape it. Then her instincts kicked in. Ramsay had been wanting her to act like a hound, and so she did. She drove her teeth into Alyn's neck and bit deep, before pulling back and tearing away his flesh.

The man let her drop to the floor as he gasped and stumbled. He himself then fell backwards, his right hand grasping at the mortal wound on the side of his neck. Blood poured down his dirty clothes and along his bare legs. It pooled beneath him, and was soaked in by the hay. He didn't even put up that much of a fight against his fate, as soon he had stopped moving and stopped moaning. She had killed him.

Before she could make her way to the door, however, a new figure appeared within the frame.

Ramsay Bolton looked very different when dressed in his formal clothes. His cloak was lined with wolfskin, and he wore a pink jerkin. His eyes were still ice cold, and his usually blotchy skin now looked pale and sickly. He reached his hand out for her, and she took it. His skin was deathly pale.

"You follow behind me, dog."

Had he not seen the body of one his men laid in the corner of the room that he had just entered? Why wasn't he acknowledging what she had just done. She had just murdered one of his boys, one of his loyal followers. was he not angry? Was he not riled up? She had expected beatings and humiliation for what she had done? Why did he look so calm, and why did he feel so cold?

She followed behind him, walking on all fours, her ass in the air, as Ben Bones had taught her. She was bare, and she could feel the eyes of the male dogs on her as she went past their cages, yet Ramsay never once looked behind him to check whether or not she was following. She looked in one of the cages, and saw Devan Seaworth, slumped up against the corner, pale and emaciated. She couldn't tell if he was still alive.

She was expecting to be taken through the courtyard, where everybody could hear her, but instead Ramsay took her up some side-steps, which led straight into the main part of Winterfell castle. She found Damon and Ben waiting for them at the top of the steps.

Ben Bones was an old man, with wrinkled skin and grey hair. He had been given the name Bones because Ramsay thought he looked like a bag of skin and bones, or so Damon had said on their way to the castle. Ramsay had made him brief her on all of his boys, so that she knew who her masters were when she arrived at her new home.

Damon was Ramsay's favourite man-at-arms. He was younger than the others who followed him, who were mostly grown men. He was maybe a few years older than Ramsay himself, maybe even a few years younger.

There was a large tub of water stood in between the two men. Damon took hold of her forcefully and pushed her into it. Ben Bones then started to rub her down with a cloth. He was mumbling to himself about how to treat dogs, and Melisandre noticed that Ramsay had taken Damon to the side of the room, and was talking to him in hushed whispers. She wondered what was on the mind of the heir to the Dreadfort. She wondered why she was being cleaned up now.

"She has to be perfectly clean for my father, Ben. Get her there and then bring her up."

Roose Bolton wanted to see her? She had seen the man when she arrived, but only in passing as Ramsay had presented his prizes to his father. Roose had been unimpressed, and complained about the absence of Shireen, although Ramsay had lied to him, she had thought Roose still looked sceptical. It had caused her to wonder at the time if somebody had been reporting on Ramsay to Roose, but all thoughts like that had left her mind when the tortures began.

She carefully looked Ben Bones up and down. She knew that he wasn't the closest to Ramsay, preferring the company of his dogs than their master, but he hadn't been brought with Ramsay to attack them, so she knew it couldn't have been him.

What about Damon, though? Could he be the person that was betraying Ramsay? She didn't believe it. The two of them were too close. Who did that leave? It could have been Alyn, and if so she had just solved that problem for her captor. Could that have been why Ramsay acted so calm when he discovered his man dead in her cell? Had he been more glad than angry? Did he even know he was being reported on?

"'Ere, bitch. Why the blood on ya teeth?"

She looked up, and saw Ben Bones looking down at her. Was he expecting her to answer him, or would he beat her if she used the common tongue, as Ramsay had told them to do when alone with her. She was forbidden from talking. She decided to play it safe, and whimpered, as if she was a dog.

"You don't have to keep up the act around me, girl. I care little for Lord Bolton or his son. I see no reason to pretend that you are one of my dogs."

"One of them- He tried to rape me- I- I- I bot out his throat."

She thought Ben would strike her for that, but instead he just carried on washing her, showing no sort of emotion for the man that she had killed. She knew that he didn't particularly like Ramsay, but did that extend out to the rest of Ramsay's men too? Was he against Sour Alyn and Damon-Dance-For-Me?

She was in the water for near an hour before Ben was done. When he got her out, she found Damon back in the room. He put her back in her red robes. They had been cleaned too. If it wasn't for her shaved head then it would be virtually impossible to tell that she had ever even been tortured by Ramsay Bolton, although that was definitely the point.

She straightened her back as she was walked through the halls and corridors of Winterfell. There was a good feeling about being able to walk on both feet, instead of crawling around her small cell. They passed several groups of servants, some of whom looked at them as they passed, and whispered things under their breath. Did the whole castle know what had happened to her?

The room that she was taken to was the solar of the Lord of Winterfell. It was a small room, both dark and cold, but larger than her cell. There was a wooden desk in the middle of the room, with Bolton flags on the walls. Three people were already in the room when she arrived. One of them was Ramsay, stood besides the door, his face now flushed and blotchy. Roose Bolton was sat at his desk, whilst the third man was someone she wasn't familiar.

He was an old man with a long white beard. His skin didn't sag, but stayed taut to his skeleton. His eyes were dark, and they flitted around the room fast, as if he was taking in the faces of all the people gathered here.

"Ah, Damon. We have been waiting."

That was Roose speaking. He had a quiet voice, but one that caused a chill to pass through her bones. His eyes were cold, and his smile thin. It looked as if he was thinking of all the things that he could do to you, with a lazy smile at the same time.

"You can go, Damon. Brief him on his role, Ramsay."

Ramsay nodded at his father's wish and left the room with Damon. She then expected Roose to turn to her, but instead he turned to the old man.

"Your brother is causing us quite a few problems. I trust that I have your discretion in this matter?"

"Nobody will know what you have told me, my lord. I am your most trusted bannerman. My lips are sealed."

"Good. Take twenty good Umber men and scout to see if you can't find where Wyman Manderly has vanished to. I would like a word with our fat friend."

The old man nodded, and then sweeped out of the room. That left her and Roose. The Lord of the Dreadfort still didn't turn his icy eyes onto her, though, but he started writing a letter on some parchment before him. She could hear the scratching of his quill on the old paper. When he was done he neatly folded the letter and placed a hot seal of pink wax on the paper.

She was surprised when she heard him speaking to her.

"Would you just ask the guard outside the door to come in?"

She was surprised also by the courteous way that he addressed her, but still, something about his smile suggested that this was all some big joke to him. It was like he was playing with her, like he was playing with everyone. Still, she did as he said, and got the lone guard from outside to come in. Roose handed him a letter, and sent him to the maesters to have it delivered.

"That is all my business sorted. Except fo you and your king. Tell me, Lady Melisandre... What would you do if you were in my position?"

She wasn't sure what Roose's game was, or why he was asking for her advice, but she knew the only course of action for him if he wanted to survive.

"Surrender. Stannis Baratheon is the one true king, all those who defy him will end up dead sooner or later."

She expected Roose to laugh at her suggestion. He didn't. He just stared at her. There was nothing menacing about his face, except for the eyes. They bore into her, as if looking into her very soul and picking apart her very being. She knew where Ramsay got his ice cold eyes now.

"Yes."

That was all he said as he stared at her, before getting up and walking to the door. His tread was soft, and made little sound. He was like a ghost. She turned around as he opened the door, and saw Ramsay stood on the other side. His face was more flushed than it had been during the rest of the day. Something had angered him.

"She is my prisoner, father, and I will not let you take her! She is mine to do with as I wish! I took her and the others! I already gave you the Florent!"

Roose waited for the rant to stop before speaking. His voice was calm and low. He was quiet, but scary.

"You gave me Axell Florent because the boy king demanded him. I would have sent the queen with this errand, but she is dead. You left me no choice but to send this one, Ramsay."

Ramsay bit his lip as his father spoke, and opened his mouth to speak a retort, but Roose raised his hand, indicating he didn't want to hear more. It seemed that even Ramsay was scared of the Lord of the Dreadfort, as he stopped speaking.

"You. Prisoner. I am sending you away. You are free to go. Well, free-ish. I dislike this war I am fighting for no avail. Your one true king is winning, through no fault of my own. My son and my wife's men have failed me at every turn. I will take your advice, and wish to negotiate terms of surrender. You are to be one of the people that I send to negotiate for me."

"Father-"

The hand was raised again, and Ramsay stopped talking. She was glad that the two of them were not alone, as she could see his anger broiling up inside him. He would have beaten her and humiliated her, if his father was not here. She knew that.

"Damon will take you, to make sure you behave. When your king agrees to the terms then Damon will habd you over. Until then, he will be given full control of everything in regards to you."

Why was Roose doing this now? Why would he send her with Damon? Did he really expect Stannis to accept his surrender, or was this just part of a larger plan? She had to do what he said. This was her chance to get away from Ramsay. She had no idea how Stannis would react to what had happened to her, or to the truth she would tell him about his wife and daughter. She had to do this. She had to escape.

"I'll do it."


	37. Cersei Lannister

Cersei looked down at the broken body of her youngest child. The Silent Sisters had done what they could, but still he was broken and bruised. This was what became of her happy, peaceful child. He was brutally killed. He had been killed by the Tyrells, she knew it.

She remembered the day as if it was yesterday. The fat oaf had arranged a tourney for the release of his daughter. She had got Osfryd to ride with her honour. He had put his lance through the armour of the people that she had wanted dead. That simpering fool Lambert Turnberry had been first. He had died bleeding in the sand.

His next target had been Lord Tarly's little boy. He was dead too. She had smiled as she watched his father realise that his son was dead. It had cost Kettleblack his own life, of course. Tarly had cut him down almost instantly with that ugly sword of his. He had been too proud to choose her, and now his legacy was dead. All he had left was daughters.

That had been when the brawl began. Tyrell men had come to the defence of Tarly, her own men had attempted to arrest him in the name of the king. The fighting had gone on for only a few minutes. Mace had sent Boros Blount away, and Osmund had rushed down to fight Tarly. Nobody was there to stop her son charging into the turmoil. He had always wnated peace. He had tried to achieve it then, but he had been trampled to death. Had he deserved this? He had been too weak to be king.

She remembered the last time she had been here looking down at one of her family. It had been her father, the time before that it had been Joffrey. One day it would be Myrcella. That was what the witch had promised. She had promised that all her children would rule and that they would all die.

"The young die just as much as the old when Kings and Queens play their game of thrones."

She turned when she heard the voice. It was the High Septon. He was an old, wrinkled man, wearing the stained white tunic that he so loved. He believed that his faith in the Seven was a shield against her wrath. How wrong he was. How wrong could one man be. Everything this man said was a crime against her. He deserved death. He deserved to be sent to one of his despised Seven Hells.

"Whether Lion or Wolf, boys die in war. Girls too. I have seen many a dead boy and dead girl on my travels. Not so many dead kings, though."

What did this man have about him that he thought it wise to taunt her? He was nothing. He was a little speck on her wider plan. He was someone here only for her to kill him. Her father would never have tolerated being spoken to in this manner, so why should she?

"My son may be dead, septon, but my daughter is not. I doubt she would appreciate knowing how you are talking about her beloved brother."

The High Septon walked around the plinth that Tommen was laid on. He stopped opposite her, and stared down at the peaceful expression that the Silent Sisters had put on his face. She was so glad. He had been a peaceful boy, if a weak and foolish one. She disliked the way that the priest was looking at her boy, however.

"I was talking to the Queen this morning. She was expressing her sadness about her brother, and desire for him to be buried with his brother soon. There were some other things, too, but I'm sure you already know about those."

Myrcella had been to see the priest? What had they talked about? Even Cersei had been having trouble talking to the newly crowned queen. She had been surrounding herself with her Dornish party. She hated the fact that Myrcella was leaving her out of decisions. The fat oaf of a Lord Regent had also found himself struggling for a place at court, and his Hand of the King was residing in a Black Cell. It was Mathis that told her all of this, of course. He was a useful tool for her, ever since Qyburn had been shunned away from the main group.

She swept out of the sept after a young female septa came to inform the High Septon that the sept was about to be opened for the smallfolk. She didn't want to put up with the muttering that came everytime that she left the Red Keep these days. The city of King's Landing had turned against her. She was no longer their queen, and now she didn't even have any control over the king.

Meryn Trant was the Kingsguard knight that had accompanied her out here. He was stood by the litter of the queen, given to her by the stablesmaster as Myrcella had no intention of leaving the castle. Some Lannister guards had come with them, of course. They were dressed in their armour, and eyed her suspiciously as she walked over. She didn't even have the trust of her men anymore.

"My Lady."

Meryn bowed his head to her as she approached, and helped her into the litter. She felt like correcting him. She was still the Queen Mother, at least, but she realised it was futile. The times had been that all of the Kingsguard had feared and served her, but then that fool Mandon Moore had gotten himself killed, and Boros Blount had shown him to be a coward.

Osmund Kettleblack had been her man, but he was badly maimed now. He had lost his left arm to Randyll Tarly in the aftermath of the fight during the tourney. He could still hold a sword, and swing it too, but he was not the knight he was. Arys Oakheart had never been receptive to her, but he was dead. Killed by some Dornishman according to the bastard girl that had come with Myrcella. The same Dornishman that had scarred her daughter.

Myrcella had always been a pretty girl, and Cersei had known that she would grow up to be a beauty, just like her mother. All of her children would have grown to be good looking. They were her children, after all, and Joff and Tommen could both have grown up to look like their father. Not the fat oaf she had married, but her brother, who was the most handsome man in the Seven Kingdoms, back before he grew to be useless to her.

She had sent a letter to Jaime asking for him to come stand for her in her trial against the Faith. All he would have to do is defeat their cousin Lancel, or someone of his level. Instead he had ignored her, and a few days later it was announced that he had been reported dead. She didn't believe that, though. She knew that she would feel something the day that Jaime died. They would die together, she knew that.

"A message came from the Red Keep for you, my lady."

Meryn Trant was still stood beside her. She rolled her eyes. It would probably be Mathis asking for her again, or Qyburn looking to tell her something new that he thought would pull him back into her good graces. The problems that she had with men would just never end, whether it was Trant, Kettleblack, Rowan, or her troublesome not-quite-maester.

"The Hand of the Queen has asked for your presence in the Tower of the Hand."

She scoffed at that.

"The Hand is in one of the darkest of the Black Cells. You know that. I doubt Randyll Tarly will be allowed back in the Tower of the Hand again."

Trant shook his head.

"Not Tarly, my lady. The bastard. Nymeria Sand."

Cersei's eyes opened wide. Myrcella had named the Dornish bastard as her hand? Did the girl have no sense. The people of King's Landing would never call a bastard as their Hand. She should have named someone loyal to the Rock, like Harys Swyft, or one of the Brax brothers. Why had none of her children inherited the brains of their mother or their grandfather? Joff had the bullish arrogance of his father, and Tommen had the weakness of her Uncle Kevan.

"Then take us back quickly. I will talk with this Dornish girl, and then I will talk with my daughter about her poor choice making skills."

Trant nodded, and the litter started to move through the city. It was not a long way from the Great Sept of Baelor to the Red Keep, but it had seemed longer every time she had made the journey, ever since that accursed septon had made her do her walk of penance.

After what seemed like an eternity she felt the litter begin the approach to the Red Keep. Trant was still walking alongside her as went. She leaned over to him, so that he could hear her speak at a whisper. You never knew who was listening in this city, and the eunuch was still a threat she feared. Her other brother could be around, too, and no doubt the fat oaf had his own eyes and ears.

"Have them take me to Rowan first. I want to know what he thinks of this appointment."

The Master of Coin held modest chambers, and they were thankfully near the entrance. She found Rowan in an anxious mood as she entered. He was wringing his hands, and running them through his hair. Thankfully he was alone, and the fat oaf or his snivelling Redwyne henchman were elsewhere, no doubt shocked by the news.

"My Queen!"

Rowan sunk to one of his knees as he saw her enter his chambers. He was a born lackey, even though he liked to pretend that the ancient ancestry of his house made him more than that. He had been a lackey to Tyrell before, and the moment she had shown him her cunt, he had been a loyal lackey to her.

"You may rise, Lord Rowan. I am here to ask you what you know about my daughter's new choice of Hand."

"I-I don't know much. I just got the news now. She has removed Mace from his position too. I don't know about the rest of the Small Council."

Cersei frowned. She could do with the Tyrells being sent from the city, but Mace wouldn't leave until his daughter had been cleared. Was Myrcella even able to remove the Regent from his position? She wasn't sure.

"Then who has she named as Lord Regent. Surely not the bastard?"

"No. Doran Martell."

She had named the Martell cripple as her Lord Regent? The man wouldn't even be able to make it up the Tower of the Hand, let alone attend any meetings there. Dorne had kept steady under it's current lord, but he was nothing special. The Martells were just a bitter group of foreigners who had chosen the wring side of the war. She had told Robert to make an example of them after he won his rebellion.

"She has granted him permission to serve the position from Sunspear. She has announced that Balon Swann is to be sent there to protect him, as he is already in Dorne. She has also announced that the High Septon will be returned to attendance for the Small Council, so as to bring the Faith closer to the crown."

This was a disaster. How fool could her daughter be? Not only had she given control of the realm to a bastard and a cripple lord who was no doubt lusting for Lannister blood, but she had invited the old fool of a High Septon, who had no idea how society in their world should be, to help rule the Lords that he frowned down upon. No way would this council stand.

"And she is set to marry the Martell boy the day after tomorrow, at the same time as she has her coronation, so as to cement the alliance between Houses Baratheon and Martell, so she says. She has allowed for her brother's widow to stay in the Red Keep until her trial is done."

Myrcella was going to see through on the marriage that the wretched dwarf had arranged for her? She could have any man in the Seven Kingdoms, so why choose the second son of a poxy Dornishman? There must be others. The Starks were dead, and the Bolton heir was married to that steward's daughter that Baelish had given them. Edmure Tully was out of the way, and Cersei would not have her daughter marrying into House Frey like Aunt Genna.

Could she marry cousin Martyn? There was no need. House Lannister already backed her. The only unmarried Tyrells of the main branch were the cripple Willas and his dying brother, the Knight of Flowers. Then there was sickly Robert Arryn, the daughter of the flying fool Lysa Tully. No, the choice of bachelors at the moment was not ideal. There was no Rhaegar for Myrcella.

She was of an age where she could marry the Targaryen boy king at Storm's End, but the boy was likely a pretender, and would want her children to be named Targaryen, when they should be Lannisters or Baratheons. She should be waging war on the pretender and showing that her men could win battles.

"The new Hand has asked for my presence soon. I don't know if she intends to remove me from my position."

Cersei was distracted and realised that Mathis had still been talking.

"I have to talk to her first. Then you. I will be waiting here for you to tell me everything that she told you, got it?

Mathis moved closer to her, so they were almost touching. They were both aware that Meryn Trant was stood right outside the door.

"And my reward?"

"You know your reward, Rowan. You get to fuck the she-lion of the Rock. I should expect that is reward enough, is it not?"

She ran her right hand across his crotch, and a smile flashed onto her face when she found that his cock was already hard for her.

"But only if you give me some good information. I want to know more about this bastard girl. I want to know her secrets and her plans. Find that out and you can have me whenever you want. I want my power back."

Those were her last words to him before she swept out. Trant was stood outside, but the other Lannister men had returned to their posts. She stepped out of the room, and saw Trant turn his head to look at her. She tried to guess whether or not he suspected what she had been doing in there. She thought that he must have. The man had been at court long enough to learn something, at least. He was not as dumb as Boros Blount.

"I wish to see you and Ser Boros in my chambers after this, Ser. I can walk to the Hand's chambers by myself. Go and get your brother, and tell him to drop whatever he is doing. I am more important."

Meryn bowed his head to her and walked away. He had a long stride. He was more a man than most of the other knights in this city. Of all of her dear, dead husband's knights, it was he that suited the capital best. He was sly, even if his eyes suggested otherwise.

She began the walk to the Hand's chambers then, and noted that Lannister men had been replaced by Dornish and Crownlanders upon the walls of the Red Keep. Had that happened today? It had happened fast. She misliked it. There were too many groups of soldiers in the capital as it was. The Lannisters, Tyrells and Martells all had men here, and then the Stokeworths, Thornes and Rykkers had men too, not to mention the City Watch, which was as well as sworn to the fat oaf Tyrell.

She had burned the old residence of the Hand, and so all subsequent Hands had made their rooms adjacent to the Great Hall, close to the Iron Throne. She went there, and found Tyrell men removing things left behind by the fat oaf and his imprisoned fool. Both had been poor choices of Hand, although this new one was worse. She was a nothing bastard, the daughter of a foolish lordling.

Nymeria Sand was outside her chambers, talking with the leader of the Tyrell men. Cersei recognised the man as Willam Wythers, one of the men sworn to Tommen's widow. The conversation was animated, but finished the moment that Nymeria saw Cersei approach. Willam left when he realised they were done, and the two women were left alone in the corridor.

The bastard was pretty, in as much that a Dornish girl could be. She had paler skin than Cersei remembered of the Dornish, and had jet black hair also. Her eyes were sharp, and her figure slender. Cersei remembered when she had been that young, and still thought herself more beautiful than this one.

"Lady Lannister, you took longer than I had expected. I hope that I didn't catch you in the middle of something."

Had the bastard been following her? Did she know that she had payed a viit to Rowan before coming here? Cersei cursed herself for not being discrete enough.

"I was paying my respects at the Great Sept. Your messenger interrupted me."

"I am surprised that you would want to set foot in that building, Lady Lannister. I am surprised also that the High Septon would want you there. I hear that you talked with him about the Queen. How did that go?"

Cersei glowered at the girl. So she had been followed that morning. Was it a Tyrell man that did it, or a Martell man sent to follow her in the shadows. Her thoughts then passed on to another. House Trant was a house from the Dornish Marches. Could he have switched sides to serve the Martells and this bastard? She had been betrayed yet again.

"He- He told me about your plans for a wedding. I should have been involved in these dicussions. I am still the Queen Mother, after all."

"Yes, of course. Who would the Queen Father be? Your husband? Or... Somebody else?"

Cersei wanted to slap the smirk of the girl's face for that remark. It was as brazen a move as any, but this bastard surely couldn't know the truth about Jaime. Not even Trant had known that. She was just going off the rumours that Stannis Baratheon had started. She knew nothing, or she would have used it by now.

"Yes, there is to be another royal wedding. My uncle will not be able to make the trip, unfortunately. He sends others to join us to represent Dorne. There is to be a coronation, too, and trials for you and Margaery Tyrell."

Cersei glowered at the girl. She was trying to play the game. She was trying to cause her to snap, but she wouldn't. This girl would get what was coming to her soon, one way or another. No Martell bastard talked to a Lannister like that and got away with it.

"After that, of course, you will be leaving the capital."

That shocked her out of her anger. What had she said? She was to leave the capital? Myrcella was sending her away? No, this was the work of this girl and her third born cousin. They were whispering into Myrcella's ear and turning her against her own mother.

"It is the will of the Queen that you return to Casterly Rock and carry on the Lannister name. Your heir, Ser Martyn Lannister, has been invited to the capital to serve as the new Master of Ships for the Queen. You will be all alone in the west, with the vast halls of the Rock as your company."

That was enough. She had been pushed, and had now had enough of talking with this girl, who understood politics not one bit. She thought herself very clever, but she would pay. Her and her pox ridden uncle, and her soppy cousin, and her entire region. Cersei Lannister would not take this insult lying down. She turned and left, without another word. She passed Mathis Rowan on her way out of the Hall, and into the sunlight.

She saw knights practising at quintain in the courtyard. They were Tyrell and Martell men. She saw servants scurrying from shadow to shadow, pots and pans and straw in their hands. They wore the orange of Martell, or the green of Tyrell. She looked up to the flags that flew above the Red Keep. The Lannister banner had been removed, and replaced with the red sun of Dorne.

She approached one of the Tyrell men. It was Willam Wythers, although she didn't know that at the time.

"Where are the Lannister men?"

She asked him. He gave her a queer look, as if he was surprised that she hadn't known or been told.

"They have been sent from the castle, my Lady. On the orders of the new Queen."


	38. Brienne III

Brienne woke from her sleep in a cave. She had no idea how long she had been out, but her head ached, as if she had suffered some sort of hit on the back of it at some point. Her eyes had to adjust to the darkness as she woke, and she didn't realise where she was. She felt someobody touching her skin, but couldn't make out a face. Soon she fell back to the darkness of her sleep, unable to keep herself awake in the darkness of reality. She thought that she heard a voice as she drifted off, but she was already too far gone.

In her dreams she was walking through a forest. She could hear the running of water somewhere nearby. There were other sounds too. There was the rustling of leaves, and the chirping of birds, but they sounded fake, as if somebody was planting the idea of them in her head. There was other sounds, though, sounds that sounded real. They were the hushed voices of people watching her, of people judging her, but none of the speakers revealed themselves to her. She tried to look for them, but it was like they didn't exist, even though she knew that they were there.

Then she turned and saw one of them. It was Hyle Hunt, on his knees, bloody and bruised. He was dirty and his hair was messy. He looked up at her, desparation in his eyes. He reached his hand out for her to take, as if he was real. She hesitated at first. He had been part of the bet on her maidenhead, and yet he had been friendly to her in the Riverlands. She realised then that she wanted to forgive him for how he had acted before. No sooner did she touch his hand than he crumpled to the floor, though.

She stepped backwards, and stumbled into the water she had seen before. It was a stream running through the glade. Then some sort of creature jumped out and attacked her. It wrapped it's arms around her face and held on tight. Eventually, she managed to throw it off, and then, as she looked down at it, she realised what it was.

It was Podrick Payne laid before her, looking as feral as the wolves of the Riverlands. His clothes were torn into rags, and he bared his teeth at her. She tried to back away from him, but stumbled again, and then he was on top of her, scratching at her face and going for her eyes. She was stronger then him, though, and managed to roll over, pushing the boy's face under the water. She watched as he gasped for air, and then felt his body go limp. She blinked, and was shocked to find that Podrick had been replaced.

Instead it was her elder brother, Galladon, that was laid out cold and wet before her. He had died when she was young, drowning in a rockpool back home on Tarth. Why was she remembering him now? She hardly ever thought of him, since they had barely known each other when he had been alive.

"He reminds you of home, doesn't he?"

She turned then, expecting to see Hyle Hunt back on his feet, but instead it was Jaime that was stood in front of her, as he had been when he met her. His hair was long, and he still had his right hand. It was resting on the pommel of the sword that he wore at his waist. He was dressed in Lannister red and gold instead of the white of the Kingsguard.

"You're a wench playing at war, but it costs the lives of boys. How many do you think I have killed? The Mad King and his pyromancer Hand? The Vance men at the Golden Tooth? They weren't boys. How many little boys and girls have lost their lives thanks to me? How can you love me, wench? You can see it easily. I may be the most handsome man in the Seven Kingdoms, but deep down I am as ugly as you, truly."

"This isn't you. You changed. I changed you."

Jaime scoffed, and circled her. He flicked his hair with a cocky arrogance.

"Did I really? Did you change me completely, or did I just take pity on you and use you? Did I really care about whether you found the Stark girls? Catelyn Stark was a dead bitch-"

"Don't you dare! Don't you dare say that about her! She trusted you-"

"Then more fool her. The Stark girls are both dead, and there is nothing that you can do to bring them back. They are dead, and you failed me and you failed her. You're worth nothing more than your dead brother. Nothing more than the dead fools who thought you worth following."

She charged at him, but Jaime drew his sword quickly, and parried her strike. Somehow she was now carrying a sword, but it wasn't Oathkeeper. It was a rusty sword of nicked steel. It was nothing, whilst Jaime's was a blade of shimmering gold that danced through the air. He laughed as he parried her strikes, and forced her back into the water with his attacks.

"You could beat me with one hand, but when I have both then you are nothing to me. Nothing more than an ugly wench."

They sparred for what seemed like hours, with Jaime throwing out jibes at her that cut deeper than his golden sword ever could. She grew tired, but Jaime seemed like he gained strength the longer that they were fighting. He laughed as they fought, laughed at her for being weak, laughed at her for the deaths of Sansa and Arya Stark, laughing at her for forgiving a man that had bet on her maidnehead.

She drove her sword at him then, and he let out a cry of surprise. The sword went through him with no resistance, and he crumbled to his knees. She wiped away her tears, and looked down at her friend, only to find that he had changed back to the Jaime she had known in the Vale. He was one-handed and dirty, with a scar running across his face, damaging his good looks. He was a broken man.

"You- You killed-"

Then he fell on his side. He was dead. She sunk to her own knees and cradled him. tears streaming down her face as she did. He was silent, but for the sound of his shallow breaths. She knew it wasn't the real him, but still, the pain passing through her body didn't want her to believe that

"Are you there? Wake up..."

Then everything she had seen was gone. She was, instead, staring up into the face of a girl. She was pale, with brown hair and eyes. She recognised the face, but wasn't sure where she recognised it from.

"Good, you have to drink. I have been trying to feed you, but you have been kicking it out for about half an hour now. Are you alright?"

Brienne moved her hand to her head, and found it covered in beads of sweat. She remembered her dream, but didn't want to talk about it with this stranger.

"Yes. Yes, I'm fine. Where am I?"

The girl dabbed a cloth at her face before answering, and wiped it across her brow, to clear it of the sweat. She had a soft touch.

"This is the hollow hill, an old place full of magic and mystery. It is a safe place. Safe from wolves and lions and others who prowl my countryside."

"Your countryside?"

"I was born in these parts. I have watched it bleed over the last two years. The high lords, safe in their castle, they sacrificed my people so that they could squabble over land and who sits on some cold throne. This is my land, not theirs."

Brienne sat herself up, resting against the wall. She looked around, and saw that they were in a dark cave, with torches sitting in brackets providing light. The room was near empty. There were a few bodies laid in the adjacent room of the cave. They looked to be men asleep, though. Roots twisted across the floor and up the wall. Some of them were brown, but others were as white as bone. She sensed there was some power in this place. Maybe that was why the girl had claimed this place was full of magic.

"Who are you? Who are they?"

She pointed at the men.

"They were Lem Lemoncloak and Notch. They were friends."

"Were?"

"They were killed by a dog protecting a wolf."

That got Brienne's attention. What could the girl be talking about? A dog and a wolf? Could that be-

"They captured Sansa Stark, if would you believe it. It was their end, though. She had protectors."

Sansa Stark? She was alive, and she had people with her? That was- Jaime had been wrong. She could still keep her oath to Lady Stark. She could escape here and find Sansa and then- Well, then what? Riverrun belonged to House Frey, and her uncle was a prisoner. Winterfell belonged to House Bolton, and Stannis Baratheon was in the North, too. The bastard at the Wall... That was the only choice. That was where she had to go.

"My name is Jeyne Heddle, though people round here tend to call me Long Jeyne. They don't like family names, you see? Even though my family is nothing now."

Brienne wasn't really paying attention to the girl now. She was too busy focussing on the idea of saving Sansa, keeping her oath to Lady Stark, and saving the honour and reputation of Jaime. She had to do this, and knowing this girl's name meant nothing towards that.

"You are a prisoner of my lady. She gave you a mission, and you ran from it. You will hang, my lady. I am sorry."

Brienne heard that. She stared at the girl, and realised that she did recognise her face. This was one of those that had taken her, Podrick and Hyle prisoner. She was one of the people that served the twisted remnant of Lady Catelyn, who hanged people for crimes that they may never have committed. She was a prisoner. She was a dead woman hidden in the shadows.

"You should sleep some more. You will want to be rested for tomorrow."

The girl laid Brienne down and walked away. She tried to close her eyes and drift away, but all she could see was the dead face of Lady Catelyn, her eyes judging her and the feel of the rope around her neck. She pictured Podrick and Hyle struggling for breath, and felt the cold touch of death. Then she fell into a fitful sleep.

She was walking through the corridors of the Red Keep. She heard the sounds of shouting and screaming. She entered the throne room and saw a crowd gathered. They didn't acknowledge her. It was as if she wasn't there.

She balked at the sight that she saw when she got to the front. A man was being burned alive in his own armour. He was suspended above a great pit, whilst three men stood around him, controlling the fire. Another was laid slumped on the floor nearby, a device around his throat, and his hand still reaching out for his sword.

She heard the cackle of madness, and she turned to look up at the Iron Throne. She had never seen Aerys Targaryen, but her father had described him to her when she was younger. His hair was long and matted, his fingernails sharp and unkempt, and his body covered in scabs he recieved from the Iron Throne itself. They say that it had rejected him.

It wasn't Aerys that drew her eyes, though. It was the young knight stood before the Iron Throne. She walked to him, and knew that she was right. This was her Jaime when he was younger. She stared into his beautiful eyes, and saw fear and conflict. He didn't approve of this, she realised. He wanted to stop it, but he wouldn't break his oath. Not yet.

"One day you will stop this, my love. One day you will do yourself proud. Live for that day."

She knew that he wouldn't hear her, so she was more open to him, she reached out to stroke his cheek, but the dream collapsed around her as she did. Soon enough, her Jaime had gone, and been replaced by darkness.

Then she heard more voices. She turned, and saw three men stood over the body of another. She recognised that one. It was the same man that she had seen on the Iron Throne only seconds before. Whatever this scene was, it came in the aftermath of the death of Aerys Targaryen.

Two of the men were clearly embroiled in an argument. They were both of the same age, although looked vastly different. One of them bore a long face and glum expressions, the other had thick, black hair and had piercing blue eyes. She realised then that this was King Robert Baratheon and Ned Stark. The other man was older and quieter. Jon Arryn, she supposed, Robert's Hand of the King.

"You would send him back to Casterly Rock? He is an oathbreaker, Robert. The Wall would be more suitable."

"And if I send him to the Wall, Lord Stark, then I deal with a Lannister rebellion. By sending him back to his father I pacify the West. By doing what you would have me do I sentence my kingdom to more years of war, and our armies are spent. You would bring more loss to my people and my city."

The old man stepped between the two of them.

"Boys. I raised you as brothers, not quarrelling lords. The answer is simple. Keep Lannister in the Kingsguard and secure Tywin's support through marriage. Robert, you must marry his daughter."

"Lyanna..."

"Lannister stays."

She tried to interrupt them, to tell them that Jaime deserved to be free. He had saved the city. He didn't deserve to waste away his life by the side of Robert Baratheon. He was a better man than that. She forgot that they couldn't hear her. She forgot that these were events that she couldn't influence. They had happened and were done with.

The three men then disappeared, and the darkness surrounded her again. It was cold and empty, and silent. Then a blinding light appeared before her. She raised her arm to block it out, but still it hit her eyes. Then it was gone. She lowered her arm, and then jumped back in fear at what was now stood before her.

It was a wolf that stood before her. A wolf with wide wings and great teeth. It was about the same height as a short man, and had more weight behind it. It started to circle her, baring it's teeth and growling. Then it stopped and stared at her. It cocked it's head, and then it spoke.

"He comes. Save him. Save her. Go south to the dragon. Go south."

Then it was gone, and she was awake, back in the cave where she had been before. The girl from before was stood over her again, but this time she was joined by someone else. It was a man. He was gaunt and old, with grey hair and wrinkled skin. He wore cloaks of red and carried a staff, which he was leaning on.

"We meet again, my Lady. You will not remember me from before, I am sure. I remember you, however. Leave us, Jeyne. I wish to talk with Lady Brienne in private."

The girl nodded and then left. The old man sat himself down next to her. She pulled herself up so that she was sat also. He didn't say anything for a while, but just stared at her, a look of sadness in his eyes.

"My name is Thoros, my lady. Thoros of Myr, they called me. I've never met another man called Thoros, though, so I'm not sure why the specification was necessary, You can just call me Thoros, if you please."

Then there was more silence. She didn't think that he wanted her to react to his statement, but she wasn't sure what to do. He had told the girl that he wanted to speak with her, so why wasn't he speaking? It was as she thought this that he started.

"You have met the leader of our group before. You never met our old leader, though. Beric Dondarrion, he was called. He was a good man, and he gave his life for the one they call their lady. She is a twisted reincarnation of Catelyn Stark. The kiss was given too long after her death. She doesn't know what she is doing, but she is determined to do it. She is part of the darkness. Do you see that?"

Brienne stared at the roots for a few seconds, before looking back up at the old man.

"I saw it last time I was here. She is not the same woman that I swore my life to. My old Lady was merciful and kind, she cared for the lives of those who followed her. This one does not. She is not truly Catelyn Stark."

Thoros smiled for the first time since he had woken her up.

"Your eyes see more than you think, my lady. I sense that today is not the day that you die. You have a role to play in this world yet, I think, and yet that is all to be ended by the ghoul of your past. The wight version of your lady Stark will see you today, and then sentence you to a death that you don't deserve. She will cut your life short, and endanger the future of Westeros in the process. You have to survive. You have to get out of here."

He talked a lot of fate and destiny, when it was clear to Brienne that her story ended here. She would never see her father again, or the beautiful Straits of Tarth, or ride through the woods of her home on a hunt, or look into the eyes of Jaime Lannister. This was where she died. She died as a criminal and an oathbreaker. The thought brought tears to her eyes. The old man reached towards her, and she pulled away from his touch.

"How would you suggest I get out of here, priest."

There was a sad smile on Thoros' face as she asked that question.

"A life pays for a life, my lady. My time is done. I have served the purpose that my god set out for me. My friend is dead, and now I must join him in whatever lies beyond. That is how it must be. That is how my song ends."

She was shocked. She could barely speak.

"You would- You would give your life for mine?"

The priest smiled at her.

"I would give my life for the future. By the time this story ends there will be countless like me, who know what needs to be done and will do it. That is my oath. That is my burden. I serve to protect those that cannot protect themselves, even if that means giving my own life for theirs. You have a purpose, Lady Brienne. Go from this place and serve it."

She shakily pulled herself to her feet, as did the old man. She stood opposite him for a few seconds, and then locked him in a firm embrace.

"Thank you."

They broke apart, and the priest looked her in the eyes.

"Do not thank me, my lady. By the time this song is done I shall be forgotten. Nobody will remember my name, but let people remember yours. Do your duty. Do what you must."

The priest then guided her through the tunnels of the cave, releasing her through a back entrance. She ran for a while, then turned. She saw the priest returning to where he had come, and then she ran some more. She covered leagues by the time that she stopped. She would sleep here, out in the open. There was something she must do first.

She went around the surrounding forest and collected countless rocks and sticks. She arranged them in a pattern on the ground, then stared down at them. He would not be forgotten. Not whilst she still lived.

Thoros of Myr. A good man.


	39. The Girl of Death

She lay on the ground, choking, lights spinning and the darkness starting to recede. She wasn't sure if she was dreaming when eventually she could make out the half burned face of Sandor Clegane looking down at her. Last she had known she was being hanged to death by the deranged corpse of her mother, but now she was alive, and Sandor was looking down at her.

"You aren't dead, little bird. Get to your feet."

"Are you kidding, dog. She was just almost hanged to death! Give her some time!"

Then the honest face of Lothor Brune came into view. There was a purple bruise beneath his left eye. Had he got that by trying to rescue her?

"She will be fucking hanged again if we stay here and they come back. All of us will be."

She heard another voice. She recognised it, but it took him a few moments to realise that it was Harwin, one of her father's men from Winterfell. She remembered that he had been one of the members of the group that had taken her prisoner. Why was he here? Had he come back for her? Could he tell her about her mother?

Then she felt herself being lifted into the air, and found herself in the arms of a boy. He was tall and muscular, with piercing blue eyes and thick black hair. He looked to be a similar age to Robb and Jon Snow, maybe a bit older. He was a new face to her. Now she could see the whole group of people gathered there.

Sandor stood nearest to her, his face burned and contorted in a scowl. Lothor was stood next to Mya Stone, who she hadn't heard speaking. She was pale and looked weak. Sansa worried that maybe she had been badly hurt during the attack on the inn. Harwin was stood to the side. When the boy holding her turned she saw the bodies of the two men that had been left with her dead.

The larger one was wearing a yellow cloak, and a helm the shape of a hound's face had fallen besides him. She recognised it. It had been Sandor's war helm, back when he had been Joffrey's hound.

"You should go on. I will stay here for a few minutes and catch you up. Make sure that there is nobody following us. Go!"

Sandor could still be scary when he raised his voice, even though she knew that he had changed on the island that he had visited. The others listened to him, and they moved on. The tall boy carried her, with Lothor supporting Mya, and Harwinhaving his sword drawn, just in case they came under attack.

It wasn't long before they reached running water, and Sansa realised that they had found the Red Fork again. Somewhere to the west of here was her mother's ancestral home of Riverrun, but, given the events that had just occurred, she didn't think she could face going there. That was when she burst into tears.

Lothor was stood at the river's edge, so it was Mya that came over and held her as she wept. Mya's arms were stronger than those of most girl's, and she cradled her carefully and closely. Sansa wondered where she had learned to be this caring. The side of Mya that she had seen mosly was the strong, independent woman. She hadn't known that there was more to the mountain girl under the surface.

It was as she had these thoughts that Sandor burst through the foliage, all in a rage. He was holding the dog's head helm that he had been given by Robert Baratheon when he first agreed to be Joffrey's sworn sword. He had retrieved it from one of the dead men. He walked right to the edge of the river, and threw it into the middle of the current. It sank, and then the water carried it away, towards the main mass of the Trident.

Nobody spoke for minutes after that. Harwin stood by the new boy, and Sandor stiid at the river's edge, glaring at where the helm had disappeared from sight. Lothor came over to her, and whispered something in Mya's ear. It was Sansa herself that moved next. She rose to her feet and went to Sandor's side.

"Thank you for saving my life."

Sandor grunted.

"That is what a good dog does, little bird. He protects those that are better than him from those who are just as bad."

"You are a better man than both those who took me, and you are no dog anymore. You are free from Joffrey, and free from the name of the Hound."

Sandor turned towards her, so that she could see the burned skin and flesh, and where the hair could no longer grow. His eyes were intense. Even now she couldn't not be a little scared when he looked at her. Even after she had sang for him and he had saved her life.

"We should move. The Brotherhood will send men to check back when Lem and Notch don't catch up. We should be well away from here by when that happens."

That was Harwin speaking, to the approval of the boy, who nodded his head as he spoke.

"Do you know which way your Brotherhood was heading? Which way should we go to avoid them?"

"The Brotherhood travel north by west. We should go east, or south."

"Towards King's Landing? You have to be joking, boy."

Sandor turned away from the water, and looked to the south. Did he know about Joffrey dying? Did he think that by heading that way they were headed for him, and that he may take Sandor and torment him? It was then that another realisation hit her. Joffrey had been hurting Sandor all this time too. That was part of the reason that he had run during the Blackwater, she was sure of it.

They walked for another few lwagues, before Harwin said they could stop and make camp. Sandor and the strange boy collected wood for the fire, whilst Lothor and Mya collected larger logs to use as seats. Harwin had vanished for purposes all his own, but Sansa felt like she wasn't helping much, so she went looking for Sandor and the boy.

Instead she found Harwin. He was knelt in front of a weirwood tree, whispering words under his breath. She didn't want to interrupt his prayers, so backed away, but he had realised that she was there, and turned to her, smiling as he did.

"Sit, Lady Stark. Your father told me once that you should always find time to talk to the Old Gods, and that there is no better place for that than in front of a weirwood tree."

She sat besides him, but didn't say anything. She wasn't sure what she was meant to say. Had the Old Gods been there for her when she was in Joffrey's clutches? Had they been preparing to stop Petyr from using her in his own sadistic plan? Had they let all that happen so that somewhere on the other side of it she could find happiness? Then it occurred to her. Something that her father had said to her and Arya once, after they had been arguing.

The lone wolf dies and the pack survives.

That was when she knew what to pray for. She prayed for Arya and Bran and Rickon. She prayed for father and mother, and for Robb too. She thought for a few seconds, and added Jon Snow and Theon Greyjoy into her prayers. They were like her family, too, even if they had done wrongs.

Harwin was already standing when she stopped thinking of her family. It had grown darker, and colder, but he was silent. He was also smiling.

"The Brotherhood believed in the Red God and his wisdom. They believed that it was he who revived Lord Beric over and over. I knew otherwise. I remembered your father's words to me, and my faith in the Old Gods grew ever stronger. They remind me of home. Of Winterfell."

It had never occurred to Sansa when she was younger that people other than the Starks saw Winterfell as their home. Harwin had been gone from the place that he belonged just as long as she had. Maybe the two of them would get home together some day soon. She would love to see Winterfell again, though it would never be the same without father, mother and Robb.

"Come. We should return to camp. I smell smoke and cooking meat. Hopefully Gendry and your friends have found us something good to eat. You should talk to the boy. He spent a lot of time with your sister. If you want to talk about her then I am sure that he would be willing to do that."

She stopped dead in her tracks. It seemed like everybody that she met had run into Arya at some point. Could the boy point her towards her sister? Could they be reunited soon, too?

Harwin wrapped his warm cloak around her and walked her to the fire. She sat besides Sandor, and spotted the boy that Harwin had called Gendry looking at her a few times, as he tore meat from the bone with his teeth. She tried to take it daintily, but her hunger got the better of her and soon she joined in on eating ravenously. She decided not to talk to the boy that night, but to question him as they walked tomorrow.

She laid herself up with Mya for warmth. Usually Mya laid with Lothor on a night, but he was taking the first watch with Sandor, so Mya came to her instead. They whispered sweet nothings to one another for a few minutes, which reminded Sansa of sharing a bed with Myranda Royce back in the Vale, but then Mya drifted off to sleep. Sansa took longer over it, busy thinking of that boy and Arya, and The Hound, too, but soon she closed her eyes and sleep took her. The last thing she saw was Sandor Clegane sitting beside Lothor Brune, away from the fire and staring out into the woods. She smiled, and then she slept.

Her dreams were fitful, full of Joffrey and his Kingsguard knights, mostly Meryn Trant, Boros Blount and Mandon Moore, and then of her aunt Lysa and the singer Marillion. She was being held above the Moon Door again. She couldn't hear what her aunt was saying. She was fixated on the drop before her. She knew that any moment now Petyr would be here to save her. He was coming.

Then she was falling. She was faling to the rocks below her. They were jagged mountains and crumbly paths. They were the mountains that Mya knew so well. They approached her fast, and soon she would be dashed on them. Then a voice spoke out to her. She knew it. It was her brother, Bran.

"Sansa... Find Arya... The dragon... Go to him... Find Arya... Bring her home..."

And then she was awake.

It was still dark and cold. The fire had almost gone out. She could make out the figure of Lothor Brune prodding it with a stick, before turning to another figure, who she assumed must be Sandor. He was drinking from something.

She could feel the warmth of Mya Stone on the other side of her. She didn't want to turn around, at risk of waking her up in the early hours of the morning. She could also make Harwin and the boy slumped against a tree nearby. Lothor had been meant to wake them up after a few hours to let them take over. She must have been asleep longer than that, though, even though it didn't seem like it.

"We should be heading to Riverrun. I don't care what the Northerner says. We should be clear of his group by now. Edmure Tully is bound to offer his niece a place to stay, and reward those that brought her to him."

Clegane grunted at that, but carried on drinking. Eventually he put the tankard down.

"Anyone looking for the Stark girl will assume we are heading for Riverrun. We should hide out, and then go is safer hidden."

"I am surprised, Clegane. I assumed you would jump at the chance to sell the girl for gold at the first opportunity that you had."

Sandor didn't grunt to that, but drank deeply for a few seconds.

"I am happy to disappoint you, Brune. The girl has had a harder life than she need have. I know what that bastard boy did to her. I knew her sister-"

"You want to fuck her, don't you, dog? That's it. I should have known. Lord Baelish tasked me with protecting her from people like-"

Sandor grabbed Lothor by the front of his shirt and pulled him close to him.

"People like what? I am not my brother, boy. I will not rape the girl. She is too good for me. Give me a drink and a whore, and I am sure these feelings will be gone. She sang for me once, that was enough."

Sansa gulped deeply at what she just heard. Sandor wanted her sexually? How could she- He was so old- His face scared her so much. Then she thought about how much rejection Sandor Clegane must have faced ever since he was a child and his brother had thust his face into that fire. His father had lied about it, and had forced his son to uphold the lie, all so Gregor could live and become a renowned knight.

She had tried to enter the mind of the man that they called The Hound before, when she was younger, but that was before she had experienced the trials and tribulations that her own father had caused her. Were they so dissimilar? The only difference was that Sandor's wounds were visible, whilst hers would be hidden forever.

Still- She wasn't sure how she should react to this? She wasn't attracted to him. He wasn't the knight that she had always lusted for. He was no Waymar Royce, or Loras Tyrell, but then, she had thought Joffrey to be a true knight, and he had been a monster. Was there such a thing as a true knight?

"The girl is attractive, Hound. I don't blame you for wanting to fuck her. It's a shame that your time on that island made you into a celibate monk, dog."

Sandor rose from his seated position.

"I need a piss. Keep watch. I won't be long."

Sandor dissappeared, and Lothor took his place sat down. It was only a matter of minutes before Sansa could hear him snoring. She quickly detatched herself from the arms of Mya, before sneaking off into the forest after Sandor. It was dark, and she was surrounded by the sound of night animals and light rain falling on the canopy of the trees.

Soon enough she thought that she was lost, and then she found herself back in front of the weirwood tree that she and Harwin had been knelt in front of the day before. She knelt before it again, hoping that the Old Gods might tell her how to deal with Sandor, and his feelings for her, and the feelings that she wasn't sure whether she reciprocated.

Then she felt a hand cover her throat, and she was roughly turned around. It wasn't Sandor, nor was it Harwin or Lothor. It was a man she recognised, though. It was the hard eyes of Ser Shadrich that were smiling back at her.


	40. The Assassin

A girl looked out over the great city of Norvos from the roof of the building where she was staying. Even here the Faceless Men had friends, or, at the very least, those too scared to refuse her room and board. The city itself was scared. She could feel it in the people when she closed her eyes. She could smell their fear. Outside of their great walls, and down the hill, was an even greater host. They were Dothraki, Unsullied, Andals, Qohorik sorcerers, and, most feared of all, the great dragon.

She had seen it from the walls the day before. It had been flying high in the sky, roaring at the clouds and twisting and turning. She had stared at it with wide-eyed awe. How long had it been since the last dragon in Westeros? One hundred years? She had heard stories in the inns and taverns of Braavos, but she had thought it just sailor talk until the Kindly Man had told her it as truth.

She was here to kill the dragon queen. That was her goal. Then she would truly be no-one. That was what she wanted, and the Kindly Man had given his life because he believed that she could do it. She couldn't let his death be for nothing.

Was he truly dead, though. She was unsure. The Faceless Men were a mystic organisation, and could take any face that they chose, provided it was in their hall. Who was the Kindly Man? Was he the same man that had saved a girl in the Riverlands? Was he a new man? Had he been a woman before he joined the order? Maybe she would never know. Maybe she shouldn't ever know. Maybe knowing would make her no longer no-one.

She heard the sounds coming from the street below her, and heard the procession as it passed by. She smiled then, and quietly dropped down, falling into rank with the soldiers that the Bearded Priests were bringing with them. Some of the Norvosi were small, and so she could pretend to be one of them. They were all clean shaven, as only the Bearded Priests were permitted to wear beards.

The great gates of the upper city were opened, and the procession began to descend the Sinner's Steps to reach the lower city many feet below them. The two cities were separate. Norvos was located amongst many great mountains, but the upper city sat on the highest of them all. The view was spectacular, and even from here she could see for miles. She could see the dragon queen's host gathered beneath one of them. There were many tents, and many horses.

What would happen to that army when she was dead, a girl wondered. Would they abandon their cause with no leader? Would they sack the city for the great wealth of the nobility of Norvos? There was Dothraki amongst them, she knew that. Some said that the dragon queen had gathered more than one Khal to her support. She wondered how that could be true.

The girl had been warned about the Dothraki by the Faceless Men. She had overheard tales of their strength and dangerous unpredictability in some of the seedier taverns of the lower city of Norvos. The Bearded Men only touched ale on special occassions, such as the induction of a new member.

It took longer than she had expected to reach the bottom of the steps. She had journeyed up and down them on her missions to gain intelligence of the events of Norvos, and the events outside the mighty city's walls, but had never done the journey at this pace. It was slower than she was used to, even though the steps were clear of onlookers and layabouts. The city guard had been around and seen that the path was clear for the Bearded Priests who ruled the lower city from up above.

There were people gathered at the side of the streets when they reached the bottom. They were prevented from touching the procession, but still they called out to the Bearded Priests to save them from the dragonfire that had consumed most of Qohor. They didn't want their city reduced to the same rubble that had been left there.

A girl saw mothers with their sons, holding them out to recieve the blessing from one of the Bearded Priests. Every now and again one of the younger priests would run their thumb over the forehead of a boy, seemingly chosen at random, and the mother would offer their thanks. Then a eunuch would run forward and take the baby. They would be trained in the art of the longaxe, a girl knew that. The Bearded Priests were secretive, but they opened up slightly to these trainee initiates.

The gates of the outer walls were open when the procession reached them. Some of the trainees stood at the gate, preventing any of the citizens of Norvos leaving and defecting over to the Dragon Queen. The back half of the procession stopped at the gate, but the girl slipped in with the front section. These were the older men of the order. They were those who truly led the city. They were those who had been chosen to negotiate on the behalf of the Bearded Priests. Some of them were mighty men, with large muscles and strong beards, whilst others were old wrinkled men, whose beards were so long that they were almost tripping up over them.

Some Dothraki had come out to meet the retinue of the Bearded Priests. That clearly caused the delegates some surprise. They stopped, and an old man rode forward, on the back of a bay courser. He was dressed in leather, and was wrinkled, with teeth missing from his mouth.

"Greetings, my friends. My name is Motho, Khal of the Great Grass Sea. I have been sent as an envoy of Daenerys of House Targaryen, First of Her Name, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, and the rightful ruler of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros. I am to bring you to her."

The leader of the Bearded Priests, one of the older men, though not so feeble, nodded his head, but didn't say anything. That was a power play, the girl recognised. The man was only intending to talk with the Queen herself. The old Khal didn't seem to take any offense from this, and called out to his men in Dothraki. They got into formation, and led the Norvosi priests off to the right, adjacent to one of the walls. They then turned left, and found a small camp set up, away from the main camp of the dragon queen. This was the neutral meeting point, the girl realised.

The Dothraki under the old man set themselves up around the camp, whilst the trainees brought by the Bearded Priests did likewise. If a battle happened here then neither side would go without casualties, she realised. Both sides were expecting some sort of treachery from the other. Either that, or both side were planning on some treachery of their own.

The dragon queen's party came forward then. The old Khal was one of them. He was joined by a Westerosi maester wearing a great chain of different metals. Then came a knight, wearing a white cloak. The last person was an Unsullied, dressed in leather, and still carrying his spear. It was the maester who stepped forward and confronted the old priest leading the Norvosi.

He was an ugly man, with tufts of hair growing from ears and his nose. He was short, and fat too, with a protruding belly from too much drinking. A girl could see that his teeth were stained red when he opened his mouth to talk. It was clear that some of the Norvosi had noticed the state of the man adressing them, as a girl could hear murmours of discontent. Some of the younger priests had clearly been hoping to see the legendary dragon in close quarters. They quietened down when the man began to speak.

"I am Grand Maester Marwyn, loyal servant of Daenerys of the House Targaryen, First of her-"

The old man leading the Norvosi waved his hand in the air. A younger man at his side leaned down, and then relayed a message.

"The honourable Shalar Ashta has heard the many names you give your queen. He asks for her presence, and wants to know why a servant adresses him."

Marwyn's nose wrinkled at that. He was clearly disgruntled about being interrupted, but just as he was about to speak, the old Khal stepped forward again. He shot the maester a look, as if telling him to be quiet.

"Our khaleesi is on her way. She... Had trouble waking herself this morning. A day of dragon riding can do that to you, so she says."

Once again the old man whispered into the younger man's ear.

"The honourable Shalar Ashta is asking whether you expect us to believe these tales of dragons and fire on Qohor?"

"Believe, them, Norvosi."

That was another man. The girl joined the Norvosi in turning their heads to the left, and saw another man approaching. It was a handsome, pale man on the back of a stallion. He wore the clothes of a Dothraki, but did not look of Dothraki origin. He looked more like an Andal to the girl. Then he spoke again.

"I expect you to see them."

The world got cold then, for a few seconds at least. It was like the Many Faced God was reaching out for her. A shadow passed over them, and the Norvosi all looked up, and backed away in horror as they saw the beastly creature land. None of these men had ever seen a dragon before, outside of the history books. Even the oldest had been born decades after the last dragons of Westeros died.

The beast was massive, with scales of black, and horns of red. It's eyes were deep red pits, and the pupils were deeper than a man's. The eyes were almost as large as a girl.

Then the silver queen dismounted the beast's back, and stepped onto the ground. She walked around the group of Norvosi gathered to talk with her. The maester stood back, and allowed the queen and the new man to take the fore. He had dismounted now, and stood just behind the queen.

"I hear that my titles do not impress you, Norvosi. I trust that my son has done that instead. As for wanting to know the truth about the destruction of Qohor, well, I think my friend can answer that."

The Unsullied then stepped forward.

"This one's name is Hasha. This one came from the island of Naath, and was taken from his home aged four. This one was sent to Qohor to defend the walls. This one was the first to choose Daenerys Targaryen over the chains of servitude. I witnessed the destruction of the city of Qohor from afar. It was greatly deserved."

The old man stepped closer, and waved away the attention of his younger colleague. He coughed lightly, and then started to speak, in a thin reedy voice. He struggled with the common tongue of Westeros, but still went ahead with it.

"You think the words of a slave scare Norvos. Norvos is great city. Stood for thousands of years. No bend knee to woman, dragon or no."

The pale rider laughed then, and stepped forwards.

"Qohor had stood for thousands of years, too. Do you want to ask the Qohorik who joined us how defiance went for them? You have nothing, Norvosi."

The old man ignored the words of the man, instead staring at the girl stood before him. The queen turned to her advisors for a few seconds, and then the Dothraki around the camp drew their blades. Some Unsullied jumped out from the long grass around them, and grabbed some of the Bearded Priests, and put knives to their throats. The queen stepped forward.

"If the Norvosi still choose defiance then maybe they should listen first. The Wise Masters of Astapor defied me. There are none left for you to ask how that went for them. Ask the Qohorik, if you would like, though there are few of them left."

"You promise peace-"

"And you promised negotiations. I don't see them happening."

The old man spat on the ground.

"Norvos will not bend to you. Not whilst I live."

"Then maybe we have found the deciding factor, priest."

The queen then lunged forward and grabbed the old man by the scruff of his clothes. His younger compatriot went forward to try and save him, but found the Unsullied's spear through his throat. Hasha had been too fast for him. The dragon queen now held a knife to the throat of the old priest.

"Priests of Norvos! You doubt the fury of my son and whether or not I would let him loose on your great city? See his fury!"

She threw the old proest forward, and he fell to his knees in front of the dragon. He had enough time to look up at the maw of the monster, before black fire engulfed him, and his screams echoed out through the mountains. A girl did not doubt they heard his wails in the lower city of Norvos.

The other members of the Bearded Priests started to drop to their feet one by one, staring at the dead bodies of two of their number. The old priest's body was charred and burned, and as the dragon queen nods, the body started to be consumed by the dragon that had been his end. The queen then turned to the kneeling men.

"Norvos will be spared, provided that all of those training in your academy of fighting age are freed and given to serve me. Your city will give me half it's wealth, and will allow any others who desire to leave your walls to join me. Do we have a deal?"

None of the Bearded Priests put up much argument, with most of them occupied with staring at the corpses of their fellows being consumed by the dragon. They left soon after, but the girl slipped into the long grass, and watched and waited.

The dragon queen sank to her knees after the men had gone. The pale Dothraki knelt by her side, whilst her other advisors turned their backs. The old man started to marshall the Dothraki into riding formation. Soon enough the queen was back on her feet, and that was when a girl came out of the bushes.

The Unsullied pointed their spears at her, and the pale Dothraki drew his arakh, and held it in her direction. A girl was not scared, though. She knew what had to be done. She knew what she needed to do.

She walked forward, and drew her dagger. The queen stared her down, but didn't command her men to attack. A girl got close enough to her, and then the pale Dothraki stepped forwards, though his queen put her arm out to stop him. Then a girl dropped to her knees in front of the dragon queen.

"Who are you?"

The dragon queen spoke. The girl waited for a few seconds to respond.

"A girl is Arya Stark of Winterfell. A girl is here to serve."


	41. Jaime II

Jaime stood aboard the ship as it cut through the waves. The surf and spray flew up at him as he looked out. Somewhere to the south of here was King's Landing. That was where Cersei was, and Tommen too. Should he go back? Would he be welcomed? He had ignored her when she had called for him. She wasn't the woman that he had fallen for all those years ago. She had changed, or was it him that had changed? Had Catelyn Stark and Brienne of Tarth driven him away from the arms of his twin sister? Was that for the better?

It had been ever since Joffrey died, he knew that much. He had not been able to look at her the same way. Every day she had become more and more paranoid. She saw enemies in every shadow. Of course, he hadn't helped, by letting Tyrion kill their father. He balled his hand into a fist as he thought of his younger brother. How could he have let Tyrion do that? He still blamed himself, even though it hadn't been him who fired the bolts through their father, he had helped Tyrion do it. He wondered if Tywin was watching him now, blaming him for everything that had happened.

Maybe he should return to Casterly Rock. That had been what his father had wanted. He had wanted him to be the new Lord of the Rock, after he died. Maybe by doing that he could put the ghost of his father behind him. He had already abandoned the white cloak when Brienne had come for him in The Riverlands, after all.

He could see land passing them on the left. Cracklaw Point, he knew. It was an area of Westeros that was sparsely habitated, and the people who did live there were poor and unruly. Robert had cared little for them, and had left them and their rulers very much to themselves, not even inviting them to the tourneys that he hosted.

They would be at Maidenpool soon enough, and from there they would journey on to Riverrun, where Edmure Tully had reclaimed his home from Emmon Frey. Tully would recognise him, that much Jaime knew. He had to get away from Andar Royce's men sooner rather than later. Maybe he could give them the slip in Maidenpool.

"You are still awake, Ser Jammos? I would have thought you would want sleep."

He turned, and found the unwelcome sight of Andrew Tollett, the heir to the Grey Glen and right hand man of Andar Royce, watching him. The man was unscrupulous and untrustworthy. Jaime could see that easily. He wondered if even Andar truly trusted him. The Tolletts were a small house of little importance, poor and impoverished, but still, they had played the game right, and would no doubt be rewarded for supporting Yohn Royce in his short war.

"I can take watch from here. You should rest your head before we arrive. We will be departing as soon as we have the chance to buy some more provisions."

"Should we not stay the night in Maidenpool? The Riverlands are full of outlaws."

"And we are a group of seven knights, Ser. I do not fear attacks from some broken men."

Jaime grimaced. He had been hoping that he could ditch them whilst they slept, but clearly Andrew trusted him even less than his master did.

Jaime stepped down from the deck, and passed Ser Artys Egen and Ser Jon Redfort sparring, and Marwyn Belmore retching over the side of the ship. That one had no legs for sea travel. Jaime had to admit that he was not fond of it. Horses may give you saddlesore, but at least you could get used to their rythmn, unlike the boats of the sea.

When he got down to his cabin, he found the young Payne boy cleaning a sword. He threw himself down on his bunk. and wiped his brow with his sleeve. The Payne boy looked in his direction, and Jaime sighed. This one was not quick to talk when there was something that he wanted.

"Have you seen Hunt, boy?"

He shook his head, and Jaime let out another sigh, again out of exasperation. No doubt Hunt would be with Marlon Sunderland in his cabin, drinking himself into a stupour. He had to talk to him, but he couldn't make himself rise out of his bunk. He hated to admit that Tollett was right. He was tired.

"Go to Marlon Sunderland's cabin and see if Hunt is there, boy. Tell him I need to see him."

The boy hesitated for a few seconds, as if weighing up whether to obey Jaime or Hyle Hunt. He then carefully placed the sword against the wall of the cabin, and scampered off. Jaime sighed again. Brienne had insisted that the boy stay with him. He was Tyrion's squire, apparently, but he wasn't familiar to Jaime.

He was too quiet to be a knight, though. The boy didn't have the stomach for war. Brienne had assured him that he had seen combat, but Jaime wasn't sure it was on a large enough scale for him to know what true war was like.

Just then the Hunt knight came barging into the cabin. He was another that Brienne had left him after being sent away. He could fight, at least, better than Jaime had expected, actually, but he preferred drowning himself in drink to contributing to any plan. Jaime sat on the bunk, and was glad to see that Hunt was sobre enough to comprehend things.

"Close the door, Ser."

The boy scampered in after Hunt, and then shut the door after him, before sitting back down in the place he had been sat before.

"Shortly we will be landing in Maidenpool, before then journeying on to Riverrun, likely bypassing Harrenhal along the way. Andrew is watching me, but not you. I want you to ride to Harrenhal when we land. Tell the man there, Ser Bonnifer Hasty, that I need his aid, and to ambush our group as we pass-"

"That- That sounds like a great plan, but I think I have better. I stayed a long while at Maidenpool, when in service to Lord Tarly. A few of the Mootons owe me coin. We can stay there, and use them to get away from Tollett."

Jaime was surprised. He hadn't expected Hyle to be any good for their escape plan besides him riding, and maybe fighting some of the knights that Andar Royce had sent with them.

"That sounds good. How quickly do you think we could into the castle and away from Tollett's clutches?"

Hunt shrugged.

"A day? I have to find the right man, and Lord Mooton is unlikely to want to defy the will of Yohn Royce. He is not a brave man."

"Shit. Tollett wants us to leave as soon as we arrive."

The three of them sit in silence for a few minutes, before the boy pulled on Hyle's sleeve, and then whispered something into his ear.

"The Stinking Goose? Yes, maybe we could hide out there. Tollett won't know Maidenpool well enough to know the places you go when you want to stay hidden. Aye, I think you have found us a hiding place, boy."

Podrick smiled at that, but still didn't speak. Jaime looked on, confused. What was a stinking goose, and why had it saved them. It didn't sound like something that a genius would think up of.

"The STinking Goose is a tavern in the Maidenpool docks."

Hyle explained.

"It's a wretched place. The kind of establishment you go to when you want to disappear. I would not reccommend eating there, nor drinking for that matter. We should be safe there, if we pay the wench behind the bar enough coin to keep us hidden."

"And how much coin do you have, Ser Hyle?"

Hyle smirked at that, as if he had expected that question.

"Not much, Ser, but my master held the castle. I know where to go to get coin, trust me. If you and the boy run to the Goose, then I will offer to help Tollett look for you. Whilst out, I'll pick up some coin and meet you there."

Just then a rapping came on the door. Somebody wanted entry.

Hyle opened it, and found Ser Artys Egen on the other side. Egen was a tall, thin knight, with a bristly moustache of white hair, despite the fact that he was of an age with Andar Royce. He was competent with a sword, but would have been no match to Jaime when he had both hands.

"Ser Andrew calls for you to join him on the decks, Sers. Maidenpool has been spotted. We intend to pull into land shortly."

"As you say, Ser. I will bring my companions up in a few seconds. I trust Ser Andrew won't mind us being a few minutes late."

Jaime then closed the door in Egen's face. He could imagine the fool tottering off, his moustache bristled and grumbling about a lack of manners and etiquette.

"I like your plan, Hunt. Tollett is no fool, though, and his master already suspects both of us of treachery. If I leave then there is nothing to say Tollett won't just cut you down where you stand."

"Send the boy then. We go to the Goose, and then he slips off, unnoticed into the shadows. He collects our coin and then sneaks to where we are. Sound better to you, Jammos?"

Jaime nodded, and then looked the boy up and down. He had it in him to be sneaky, but Tollett may spot him running off. It was a risk, but one they had to take if they wanted to escape the Knights of the Vale in Maidenpool.

The wind whipped through his hair as he stepped out onto the deck of the ship. Hyle Hunt came behind him, and the boy, Podrick Payne, came last, almost cowering behind Hyle's legs. He disliked the seamen on board, Jaime knew that, and Andrew Tollett scared him. Jaime could understand the latter. The man was dark and mysterious, and when he smiled... Well, then he may have been more foreboding than even the Mountain That Rides.

The ship pulled into port, and Marlon Sunderland and Marwyn Belmore were the first to step off, with Belmore visually expressing his delight to be back on stable ground. Sunderland, however, almost fell off the quay, as a combination of his drunkenness and the adaptation from boat to land sent him sprawling. That caused Redfort to laugh out loud.

Belmore and Egen led them down the quay, with Tollett just behind them, and Redfort and Sunderland taking up the rear. Hyle walked at a slower pace, and Jaime followed his moves. Tollett and the men in front didn't notice, causing a gap to form between them and the five at the back.

"Hey! Where'd the boy go?!"

That was the bold voice of Jon Redfort talking. Out of all of the knights sent with them, he was the closest Jaime had seen to being on the level of himself, or Lyle Crakehall. He was strong and swift, and brighter than he looked. His call out caught the attention of Tollett, as well as Egen and Belmore, and the three of them came back.

"What do you mean? Where is the boy? Where has he gone?!"

Tollett was furious, and started gesticulating madly with his hands. It was the first time that Jaime had seen him lose his temper. He looked like a man possessed. It would have been comical, had Redfort's sharp eyes not just ruined their plans for escape.

"Sunderland, Egen, and I will look around the area for him. He can't have gone far. You four stay here."

Jaime got the impression that he was more tasking Belmore and Redfort to look after them, and make sure they didn't also escape, but the moment that Tollett was gone, Hunt smashed the hilt of his sword into Redfort's chest, sending him keeling over. Jaime charged headfirst into the ample frame of Marwyn Belmore, sending the man over the side of the quay and into the water.

Then they ran.

Hyle had them dodging past dockers and sailors, as well as prostitutes, merchants, and even the occassional knight and soldier, some of them bearing the salmon of Mooton, but most often the red huntsman of Tarly.

Suddenly Hyle ducked down a back alleyway, and Jaime was almost caught off guard. He followed him, and soon found himself in a dark and shady tavern, with wet marks on the wall, and blood stains on the floor. The woman behind the makeshift bar was dirty, with a balding head, and a smoiled smock masking her swinging, saggy breasts. Her face was hard, too.

"Maria! It is a... pleasure to see you again!"

"Hyle Hunt? Is that you? Las' I saw of you was you running from the coin you owed to Mad James Heddle. What you doin' back here?"

Hyle clearly knws the woman, and Jaime thought not to intervene with their reunion. Instead he looked around the establishment at the other patrons. Many of them bore scars upon their faces. He ran his hand down the scar that Brienne had given him, remembering all that she had done to protect him from the monster that she had been running from. He wondered where in the world she was.

"Ser Jammos, follow me."

Jaime was pulled out of his thoughts by Hyle, who was indicating that they sit themselves at a table in the corner. He followed the knight, and sat in the darkness and silence. Hyle was, for once, not drinking, and this allowed Jaime to listen in on the conversations of those around him.

"I 'ear people are flocking from King's Landing like nobody's business. They running scared from everything that has 'appened."

That came from a bald man with a hooked nose, and it caught Jaime's interest.

"'Ow many kings have we 'ad on that throne recently? Robert, and his two boy kings. Now a girl. I ain't calling no little bitch queen."

"Don't think you never will have to, Harry."

That caused some laughter from the gathered patrons. Jaime stared at the new speaker. He was large of waist, with a bushy, orange beard and dull eyes. He had two scares, one on his left cheek, and the other running next to his nose.

"Don't forget the other kings. The wolf king, then Stannis and Renly Baratheon."

"Stannis ain't dead, though."

"Then where is he?"

Jaime then leaned over and tapped the bald one on the shoulder with his hand. He turned, and shot Jaime a look that suggested he would happily have a fight with him. He would have had no training, but, then again, he had both his hands, which is more than could be said for Jaime.

"I'm sorry, but did you say a girl was on the Iron Throne? I thought Tommen Baratheon was King?"

"Where the fuck 'ave you been? The boy king is dead. Killed by that Lord Tarly fucker, so I heard. The girl is queen now? Myranda, is it?"

That caused the large one to laugh.

"Myranda is the whore Benny Moot likes on Whore Row. The new queen is Myrcella."

"That's it. Heard she was a pretty one. Maybe if I go to King's Landing they will let me fuck her. She might be a bit young, but that just makes her cunt tighter."

"You'd have to hurry. She'll be dead soon enough. Kings and Hands don't last long nowadays."

Jaime got up then, and went to the other side of the tavern. He sat down, and could, strangely enough, feel tears in his eyes.

Tommen was dead? That was something he hadn't seen coming. Joffrey- Well, Joffrey had been disturbed, and Jaime had never grown close to him, but Tommen had been a sweet boy, and was still young and growing. He had not deserved this.

He thought of Cersei, and how she would be taking the death of their second son, and then he thought of how it had been her that had left Tommen in the position that he had been with House Tyrell. He thought of all she had done for their family, and how now her actions had cost them their youngest child.

It was then that he decided not to return to King's Landing. He had failed his oath, and Cersei had failed him.


	42. The Chieftain

The crows and the free folk had stayed separate for most of the journey.

Whatever their alliance had been with Denys Mallister, that had not extended to the brothers of the watch who had been sent south, to help the free folk settle into the homes that had been promised to them by not just one but by two Lord Commanders. Some of those that had been at Castle Black had left, to find their wives and children, who had already settled in the Gift, whilst others had joined them.

Tormund was now sat around a war council, joined by five of the free folk, and one brother dressed all in black. That was Eddison Tollett. The fifteen or so crows that had come south with them had chosen him as their representative. He was a dour man, and as much a kneeler as any of these southrons from beyond the Wall.

The free folk leaders in attendance besides him, were Sigorn, leader of the Thenns, Crowl Crowkiller, who had united the tribes of his father, as well as those of Harma Dogshead, Ygon Oldfather, whose sons and grandsons could make an army of their own, Soren Shieldbreaker, a famed warrior and chief, and Halleck, who had chosen to leave the Wall to serve as an advisor to the Thenn boy.

Their camp was two leagues away from the castle that Sigorn wanted to take. It was held by kneelers, and they wanted to change that.

"Storm the walls and take the castle by force. That is the only way. Kill any who oppose you. Kneelers won't be missed."

That was the suggestion of Crowl. The boy was like his father. He had no tact, and no real knowledge of warfare, winter or combat. He would die upon the walls if they stormed them. That, or he would hang back and protect their arses as other, better men died for him.

Still, he had the approval of Soren, at least, but that was no surprise. All Soren cared about was blood and glory. He was a strong fighter, and would survive the battle, most like. Tormund was no southern kneeler, but even he could see that something more than climbing the walls was necessary to take the castle and then hold it. Karhold wasn't The Wall, after all.

"You need to get it through your thick skull, boy. Storming the walls isn't an option for us. They have enough men to hold the castle for a few months. They also have enough men to defeat us if we rush into battle too quickly. I'm not risking my sons lives because you want a fast solution."

That was Ygon putting Crowl in his place. He was absolutely right, of course. Storming the walls of the castle would have been an option if victory was likely, but the Free Folk didn't have that luxury. The Karkstark in the castle was defended.

"I agree with Ygon."

Sigorn himself spoke up then, and the bickering stopped, with Crowl sinking back into his chair and his furs, a look of twisted disappointment on his face. No doubt he wanted to prove that he was his father's son in battle.

"Besides, these southern lords would dislike it if we, the ones they call wildlings, start massacring them in their homes. They distrust us as it is. Spilling their blood now does nothing to change that."

"Why change it."

Soren barednhis teeth at being told he would not be able to lead the line into battle. He was a strong man, but less clever. He reminded Tormund of The Weeper, but less vindictive, and with more muscles to back up his bloodlust.

"These southerners will not accept you as lord of one of their castles. We may as well attack them and make a statement. Show them we cannot be stopped."

Sigorn grunted, and then turned to the crow, who had sat in silence up until that point.

"Tell me what you think, southron. You understand the mind of kneelers better than anyone else here. What would you do, if you had the blessing to be me?"

The crow didn't speak instantly, and instead composed himself.

"I know no Karstarks, my lord, and no Karstarks know me, but I know men of the North. They distrust you, and would distrust you more if you kill their kin and their friends. Same as you distrust me for my brothers doing the same to yours."

That caused a reaction from most of the gathered Free Folk leaders. Soren and Crowl both raised themselves in protest, and started shouting, whilst Halleck spat on the floor, and Ygon bared his teeth. Sigorn stayed slumped in his chair, though.

"Crows murdered my father. They murdered my mother and my uncle. I should put your head on a spike, crow."

"We don't need none of yours here. I say we kill this one, and then kill his brothers. See how they like being brutally butchered, as they do to our women and children."

Sigorn then raised himself, too, and placed his hands squarely on the table. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, but stern, and the two chieftains were forced to sit.

"The crow is right. We hate these southrons for murdering our people, and they will hate us if we murder theirs. Besides, my wife has family in there, and I have been asked not to have them killed. Tormund, you have remained unusually quiet. What think you?"

Tormund had not expected to be asked his thoughts so soon, and so had to compose himself before speaking before those gathered.

"I followed the Mance into battle because I believed in him. He wanted to speak with the crows on their mighty Wall, but it was your father, among others, that insisted we storm their castles and raid their lands. He said they would never listen to a man of the Free Folk. He was wrong, and we lost many men. Lord Snow let us through his wall because he needed to, and because we talked with him. I say we do the same thing with these Karstarks."

Sigorn smiled then, and nodded. Clearly he had been given the suggestion that he had wanted all along.

"I agree completely. This isn't a member measuring contest. We have to have some tact. Tormund, I will send you and your choice of men to talk with the leader of my wive's kin. Bring me back a castle."

Sigorn got up and swept out of the tent then. Crowl spat on the floor.

"I never thought I would live to see the day where a Magnar of Thenn bent the knee to his kneeler wife. And you, Giantsbane. You are supposed to be the figure of legend, and here you are backing away from a fight."

Tormund rose from the table himself, then, and stared down the Crowkiller brat.

"Winter is here, boy. We need to know when to pick our fights, or our entire people will be gone, and then it will nae matter who bent the knee to who."

Then he left the tent. Sigorn was already gone from his sight, but the crow from the meeting appeared from behind him. He should know better than to catch a man of the Free Folk unawares.

"You spoke well, crow."

"I spoke more than I would have wanted. Most of your men scare me shitless."

"Be scared o' Soren, but not Halleck or Crowkiller. Both of them are just trying to prove themselves to be as worthy as their relatives."

"Their relatives killed a lot of my brothers in black. That is what scares me."

Tormund laughed, and put his arm around the crow. He was not a large man, but, then again, Jon Snow hadn't been either. He knew that this crow hadn't helped kill Lord Snow, and that meant he liked him more.

It was a number of hours before Tormund had readied the group of people that he would take to treat with the southrons beneath the walls of their castle. Sigorn wouldn't be there.

There was Toregg, his eldest son, who would be joining them as a guard, as well as few other of his men. They were protection, in case any of these Karstark kneelers decided to try anything.

They were also joined by Ygon Oldfather, who was smarter than the other chieftains that had decided to follow Sigorn. He understood that sometimes you had to talk to look for peace, and to protect your family. Soren and Crowl were infants compared to him.

The crow from before joined them, too. Tormund had asked him to come, as the presence of one from the south could help their cause, and the crows were highly thought of in the North of these Seven Kingdoms, that he knew.

"We should ride now, boys. Get there soon and secure ourselves a castle, so I don't have to chill my balls off in my tent for another wretched night."

He reined his horse, and made to ride over the hills and towards the castle of Karhold. He was stopped then, though, by the sound of a girl calling out. He turned, and found Alys, Sigorn's southron wife, riding towards them.

She wasn't an unattractive girl, but her face was long and her chest flat, and she stood taller than some of Sigorn's men. She was also quiet, and had barely talked with Tormund since they left the Wall, preferring the company of the spearwives her husband had selected for her, and she mostly stayed in her tent.

"Lord Tormund! Wait! I would ask that you take me on this trip, too!"

Tormund turned his horse, so it was sideways to her, and thought for some seconds. Sigorn hadn't forbidden taking the girl, but he wasn't sure he would have wanted it either. He cared for her, and there was no guarantee that these Karstarks wouldn't betray them. Surely they would not harm one of their own, though.

"I am no Lord, woman, and you are no soldier. You stay behind. These talks are no place for a woman such as you."

"This is my home that you are fighting for. These are men that I have known since I was a babe. I can talk them into surrender much more effectively than you ever could."

"You're a woman-"

Alys scoffed at this.

"Women of the Free Folk have been climbing the Wall and raiding for generations. I am of the Free Folk now, and think that I am more than capable of talking with my friends and family about their surrender."

Ygon stepped forwards then, and offered his own thoughts.

"Take the girl, Tormund. Have your son stay by her side at all times. Sigorn will forgive you if thsi move delivers him a castle and his new home, you know that."

Tormund didn't respond for a few seconds, before grunting his approval, and the party then left, with Alys joining them.

It was only a short ride to the walls of Karhold. They went through a small forest of pines and cedars, with the occassional weirwood. The trees were covered in snow, and the horses found the walking tough at times. Soon they were there, though, and Tormund looked up at the walls of the castle of Karhold, and thought of how different it was to Castle Black on the Wall.

The castle sat upon a rocky uprise in the woods, and there was just one steep path to get to the main gate. From there, you had to cross a wooden bridge to reach the main body of the castle. He was glad that Sigorn had listened to sense, and not to Crowl, for they would have lost many men in the storming of this place.

Fortunately, they didn't have to go up the path, for the Karhold contingent had already made their way down to the meeting point at the foot of the winding trail. He rode out to them, at the head of his party, with Ygon and the crow following just behind him.

The leader of the Karhold group was a man, but no soldier. He had a round face, and was large around the waist. Tormund had thought he would be talking to a man of war, not a man of feasts.

"Wildling! You took your time getting here. I was planning on leaving and returning to my warm castle with plentiful food supplies. I am pleased to see that you have turned up."

"You should be more pleased to see another who has come with me, kneeler."

Tormund moved his horse to the side, and let Alys ride forward. She looked at home on a horse, Tormund noticed. More at home than she ever had done when he had seen her knitting, or doing things one would expect of a woman.

"Uncle Arthor? I did not expect it to be you that was left in charge here. Where are Cregan's sons?"

"Alys? I am likewise shocked to see you. I heard you had married a wildling, but I assumed he kept you in chains with a knife at your throat. Cregan's sons rode to Stannis, and have not yet returned. Your uncle left me behind as castellan."

"My husband cares for me very much, and I care for him. He is of the Free Folk, cousin, not a wildling, as you call him. I think you would like him, if you got to know him. Tell me, where is Harry? Is he not home?"

That caused the fat Karstark to pause, before offering up a measured response.

"Your brother, my lady... He is no longer with us. His ship was caught in a storm just off the Three Sisters and it went down with all those on board. I am deeply sorry."

Alys let out a little sobbing sound, but when Tormund looked at her face he could see she wasn't crying, not yet anyway. He remembered how hard it had been when he lost his son, and tried to translate that to this girl losing her brother. He knew that it would hit her hard.

"Rest assured, the loss hit everyone in Karhold-"

"Karhold. Yes. We are here to negotiate your surrender to my husband, uncle. I am here to assure you that all your men and women will be spared and kept safe if you let Sigorn into your walls. They will not rape, nor will they pillage and steal. You have my assurances on that."

Arthor paused for a few seconds, clearly deep in thought.

"The word of Rickard's daughter is enough for me. Send news to your husband and tell him to come, but only with thirty of his men for tonight. We will talk about inviting more in on the morrow."

Tormund then rode forwards, and turned to his gathered party.

"This is good news. Ygon, Toregg, boys! Ride back to Sigorn and bring him news o' our victory here. Crow, ride to your black brothers and spread word o' the peaceful victory of the Free Folk."

The group disbanded then, so only Tormund and Alys remained in front of Arthor Karstark and his group of men-at-arms.

"So, kneeler, care to show me around my new home?"

The tour didn't last long. The inside of the main castle of Karhold was less impressive. It was a single courtyard surrounded by four walls, and the lord's quarters were all built into them, with no keep, and no separate rooms.

Tormund found himself a room. It was no lord's chamber, but it would suit him fairly. The hearth was of a large size, and the bed had mattresses stuffed with feathers instead of straw or woodshavings.

He had a girl light a fire in the hearth, and then pulled a seat up so he was sat besides it. The light from the fire bathed his face. He stared into the flames, and thought of the journey south from Castle Black.

Denys Mallister had seen them off personally, though he had been busy ever since becoming the new King Crow. He had decided to hold most of the traitors in the crow's ice cells. It had been a solemn occassion, and many of the Free Folk that had taken the black and become crows had been there to see Sigorn and his party off, and many of them wished him luck.

Now they were here. This was their new home. He would send off for the rest of his family as soon as he could, and they would join him here, safe in a southern castle with walls and bridges and fires.

Just then the door opened, and Tormund was surprised to see Alys Karstark step into his rooms.

She had changed since last he had seen her. Instead of the Free Folk furs she had donned before, she now wore wolf pelts, and a gown of black and silver. She had changed into the clothes of her family.

"My brother is dead, Giantsbane."

"My condolences for yar loss."

Alys stepped further into the room, and closed the door behind her. The only light now came from the fire, and from a small window, that was letting in the light of the setting sun.

"It is not condolences that I come to you for. Sigorn tells me you have seen many winters. More than almost any man in his army."

"Aye, apart from one man or two. I have seen more winters than I care to count. My lady."

Alys scoffed at that.

"I am not your lady, Tall-Talker, and I do not require you to address me as such. You are no kneeler, and I will not force that indignity on you. You are Tormund Giantsbane, chieftain of the Free Folk, and a feared raider. I expect to see more of you."

Tormund was taken aback. He had never seen her this confident since the day they had met. She walked around the room. Maybe it was her being back home, or the fact that it had been her and not him that had taken the castle for her husband. Maybe that was why she was acting in the way she was.

"Is it true that you slept with a She-Bear?"

He looked up at her again, and she was staring at him inquisitively.

"Aye, it is. Got meself drunk and fucked her, thinking she was a woman. Next morning I awoke and found her pelt on my floor, and soon tales of a naked bear in the forest were spreading. That's how I knew."

Alys smiled and took a step closer to him.

"That's an impressive story. One of my husband's spearwives told me about it. They say your son Toregg is the son of that bear. Is that true?"

"Aye, he might be."

"He is a strapping man, is he not? Tall and strong, and he can heft an axe like no other man in my husband's force. I bet his father was like that once."

Tormund scoffed.

"Never as tall as him, no, but I can still throw an axe further, and bring it down with more strength."

"More power than your son? That is truly an incredible feat. I would ask you to show me some of the skills that I have heard you possess, Husband to Bears."

She swept across the room then, and threw her pelts to the floor, so that all she was wearing was her gown. She pressed herself up against him, as he sat his chair. She ran her hands through his snow white hair, and down his large chest.

"You are Sigorn's-"

"When has a woman being taken already stopped you before? I want to feel a man inside me. Sigorn is sweet, but he is clumsy. You are not. If you have fucked a bear, as you say you have, you should have no problem with me, yes?"

He could not protest, as then she removed her gown, and stood before him as naked as the day that she was born. Her breasts were small but perky, and the rest of her body was slender too. He pulled her in then, as he couldn't resist her young body, and his member had hardened.

He fucked her once there, in that chair, and then again in the bed, as hard as she had asked him too. Soon they were both panting, and she gave him another deep kiss, her tongue flicking against his teeth.

"You are better than Sigorn, and longer too. You cannot tell him we did this."

Tormund rolled over, onto his back. He was naked, and his member hung soft between his legs, still slightly wet.

"You should go then, before he arrives."

Alys did leave then, and Tormund cleaned himself up. He had a girl bring up some heated water, and bathed for some time. He didn't go down to the gate to welcome Sigorn, and instead waited until later to leave his room and visit the courtyard.

When he looked up, he saw Sigorn stood on the gatehouse balcony, looking out over the forests and hills that now belonged to him. Was he missing the rich lands of Thenn, Tormund thought, or was he glad he had found a new home.

Alys came out to him soon, though she didn't spot Tormund spying on the two of them from below. Sigorn kissed her lightly on the lips, and then she took his hand and led him away. Tormund shivered as a cold wind ran through his bones. He should head inside. The night tonight was a cold one.

Winter had come.


	43. The Smuggler

Davos Seaworth woke from his fitful sleep, and then struggled to pull himself to his feet. He was weak and emaciated, and barely had the strength to get out of bed these days.

He walked to the side of the room where he had been keeping track of the days that he had been in here. It was nearly twenty, now. He got food every five days, and water every other day. Today he would get nothing. He slowly scratched a new marking on the wall, to symbolise a new day confined in these dungeons.

This was all the doing of Wyman Manderly, of course.

He had been sent to White Harbour by Stannis, his king. Had he known that he was sending him into a nest of vipers and liars? Davos was unsure, but what he did know was that he was here because of his loyalty to his king. Stannis was the reason that he was apart from all of his family. He had never doubted his king before, but the four walls that made up his prison cell had driven him to that.

He remembered his arrival in this accursed place. There had been Freys here, though they were long gone. Wyman had faked his death, and told him of the survival of Rickon Stark, and promised to bend the knee to Stannis, provided Davos hunt down the boy and bring him home.

Davos had, of course, blindly agreed to do it, out of love for his king, and his desire for Stannis to sit the Iron Throne and secure the support of the North. He had been foolish.

He had journeyed to Skagos, joined by Manderly men, including Wyman's cousin, Ser Marlon, and they had crashed. There he had encountered a boy, Aegor Stane, who had escorted them to his home, and who had told him that the Crowls had declared themselves for a rabid boy, who they called the Wolf King.

After that, Aegor had taken him to Deepdown, and Davos had begun negotiations to be allowed entry. It took days to get that, and then a week further to convince them to hand over their new king.

Rickon Stark had been a wild boy when Davos eventually met him, preferring to go without wearing clothes, and with his hair long and matted, with it full of knots, dirt and debris.

He had been a wildling woman, too, who had done most of the talking. She hadn't wanted to bring Rickon back, as she saw Westeros as being a place for the damned, and said that the dead would take him, and that he would join them. He hadn't been sure what that meant.

Eventually, after another few days talking with the boy, he convinced him to come home to Winterfell, to return to Westeros and take up his birthright, and to conveniently win Stannis the throne during the process, though he hadn't made that a selling point to the boy.

He had said his goodbyes then. He had grown close to Aegor in the time that he had spent on Skagos, but the boy didn't want to leave his home. The Skagosi were truly a separate people, Davos had thought. They were protective of their own, and stubborn to a fault. They reminded him of his king, in parts.

Aegor had reminded him of one of his sons, Devan, who was serving as the squire of his king. The two looked similar, and were equally driven.

He was surprised to find the Skagosi could read and write in the common tongue, though no Maesters lived on the island. They would not have them there, even if the Citadel would be willing to send some of their men to the remote island.

He had been lent some ships by the Stanes, as the Manderly ships that they had come on had been dashed against the rocks, and he found it better to control, and easier to steer in and out of the sharp rocks of Skagos.

He had to promise the Stanes some things for their ships, of course, such as being named Lords of all of Skagos, and being sworn directly to King's Landing, instead of through Winterfell, but he saw no issues in either of those requests. They were basically independent as it was.

The journey back from the island to mainland Westeros had been a calmer one, and a quick one at that. They landed just south of Karhold a couple of days after setting off from Skagos, and the Manderly men had rushed onto the land. For a house with the strongest naval presence of all the houses in the North, they had few men following them who had any training on the sea itself.

Marlon Manderly had survived all of these events, of course. He was a strong man, and, whilst not in the best shape, he was still fitter than the other Manderly men that Davos had met during his brief stay in the New Castle.

The young boy had run from the deck soon after landing, followed by the mighty direwolf that followed him wherever he went, and the wildling woman that served as his friend and a mother figure.

Davos had then stepped down from the boat, followed by Marlon Manderly, amongst others, and watched as the wildling woman had her throat slit, and the wolf had a fishing net thrown over it. The boy was confused. He wailed and cried and had no idea what was occurring. Davos had felt like that, too. What was happening became abundantly clear after that, however.

Soon enough he felt the dagger of Ser Marlon Manderly pressed against his adam's apple, with the big man stood behind him. Then he was put in chains, and brought back to White Harbour, brought in during the cover of darkness, so nobody could see that he was a prisoner.

That was the story of his great journey to Skagos, the unknown island, and the subsequent betrayal of House Manderly, and his own imprisonment in the name of Stannis Baratheon.

They had put him in this cell, with nothing but the clothes they had taken him in, and a knife, so that he could end his life should he choose that way out, thus absolving Wyman from any sins in the eyes of his tree gods.

The hours passed, and all Davos Seaworth could do was sit, sleep, shit, piss, or clean the knife that would, no doubt, inevitably take his life. Well, that was if hunger or dehydration didn't get to him first. Right now they were keeping him alive, but how long until he was forgotten, or until they decided he was of no use to them? His life was not a long one.

That was provided that he couldn't get out of here somehow.

He had been a smuggler, after all, getting himself out of tight spots and tricky situations were all part of the trade, and, whilst Stannis Baratheon had seeked to make him a better man, some of what he had learned all those years ago had stuck.

The door separating him from the corridor outside was made of wood. He threw himself against it every day to try and break it down, and every day he would be told to keep quiet. That meant somebody was watching him.

He pretended as if he had cut deep into his wrist, and let out a long wail, and wretched screams of death, as if he were dying in agony.

He hid behind the door then, and waited for it to open, which it soon did. It was the younger turnkey that came to check on him. Davos regretted that the moment he saw him, as a few seconds later the boy had the very same knife that Davos had been supposed to use to kill himself through his neck. He dropped to the ground without a sound.

The boy had been no more than fifteen years of age. He had been little older than Devan. That caused Davos to be even sadder, but he had done what he had to do.

He then took the shortsword that the boy had been carrying, and stepped out of his cell. He had been listening to the way that the guards came when they did their checkups, and they always came from the left, so he headed that way.

He had debated over whether going right might illicit some sort of unmanned escape, but had decided that he should try the way he definitely knew had a way out, to try and escape before they realised he was gone.

The climb out of the depths of the Manderly dungeon was a long one, and one he had to take slowly. He checked every corner before going around them. He wasn't a fighter, and he never had been. He didn't want to be engaged in close combat with anyone here, not when he was emaciated and tired.

As it happened, however, the way out was hardly manned. He passed one washerwoman and a guard that was whispering sweet nothings in her ear, but neither of them saw him.

When he got out, he instantly felt the sea wind whip against his face, and it rejuvenated him. It made him feel more at home. It made him feel like a young man again, back when he was dodging in and out of crags and stacks to get his meals and his coin. Maybe that was where he should go back to, instead of running back to Stannis, who had sent him into Wyman Manderly's spacious maw.

He looked over the edge of the parapet, and found some bushes growing just beneath him. It took very little for him to jump over and land safely on the ground below, before disappearing into the cold morning air, to steal away to the city of White Harbour proper, and plan his next move.

He thought of the boy that he had killed again that night, as he drank in a particularly seedy establishment along the docks of White Harbour. The bells had rung for a short while, but had then silenced. Davos assumed that meant they had found the boy's body.

He had told him once that he had wanted to go off to war and become a knight after a battle, and have bards and musicians sing songs of his rise, and what he did, like Florian the Fool, or Serwyn of the Mirror Shield.

He had told Davos all of this during his first spell in a Manderly cell. Clearly he hadn't been taken away to join Wyman in whatever war was keeping the fat lord away from his lamprey pies in White Harbor.

He drank again from his tankard. He couldn't remove the sight of the poor boy lying dead, blood seeping from his neck, from the wound he inflicted. That had been a boy with a life and a future and he had snuffed all that out. He remembered how he had felt when Dale, Allard, Matthos, and Maric had been taken from him. Somewhere in this city a mother and a father were feeling that same feeling right now.

He remembered back to the days when he hadn't been the hand of a king, but to when he had been a smuggler. Then he had a wife, though he wasn't always faithful to her, and young sons who he would see when he returned home.

When was the last time he had seen Marya, or Steffon and Stannis. He had lost four of his sons to the cause of Stannis Baratheon, and another was somewhere far away, maybe dead, too.

He wanted to go back to Cape Wrath and see his wife and his two youngest sons. To tell them of the bravery that their brothers had shown upon the Blackwater, or of how smart Devan looked in the clothes that Stannis had given him. He wanted to give Marya a kiss, and share a drink with her, and then drunkenly make love.

He wanted these things more than anything.

Ever since Stannis Baratheon had taken his fingers and named him a knight he had worshipped the man for his honour and his courage and his sense of justice. Had he been a blind man? Had he been as much a fool as Axell Florent had thought him? Was Stannis not the man that he had believed him to be?

Before this War began, Davos would have run back to his master like a wounded dog, but that was before the Red Lady killed old Maester Cressen, and before he watched Matthos burn alive on the Blackwater, or before the Wildling woman had been killed, or before Wyman Manderly had chained him in a cage and slowly started to starve him to death.

Those were things that he had seen happen because of Stannis Baratheon. What kind of a king would he make? Had he been blind to this from before, or had the man changed since war broke out?

"Aye, they say Lord Manderly is to be 'And of the King to Robert Baratheon's brother. The old one, what's he called... The Onion Knight? The one who stopped off here a while back. They say 'e died on Skagos, eaten alive by cannibals. Wyman's cousin watched it 'appen, and barely made it out with his own life."

Davos turned as he heard that, and looked behind him, to where an old man was talking with a younger boy, who could only have been sixteen or so years old.

Again, Davos thought of the dead boy in that cold cell, and of how it had been he that had ended his life. He then thought of how Stannis had been so quick to replace him with the very man that had caused that boy's death.

Stannis had betrayed him. How quickly had he been in choosing a new man to take his place? Had he sent a rave to Cape Wrath to tell Marya? Had he forgotten the sacrifices that the Seaworth family had made for his cause?

That was when he made up his mind. He did not owe his life to Stannis Baratheon. If anything, Stannis owed his life to Davos. He would not stand by and run back like a wounded hound, but he would do what he wanted, and that was to sail home and find his wife and sons. He wanted to see young Stannis and Steffon, and he wanted to see Marya most of all.

He left the inn then, and made his way to the White Harbor docks. It was late, and the water was dark, but reflected the moonlight, and reminded Davos of the countless times he had used the dead of night to sneak into places that he shouldn't have been in.

He had never had those troubles when getting into King's Landing, or even the docks at Lys and Tyrosh. There the guards had been bribeable, but Braavos and Lannisport had been harder. To get your boat docked at some of the ports of Braavos was a challenge, as they were split depending on where abouts you came from.

Despite the lateness of night it wasn't hard for him to hire a rowing boat. He also bought himself some bread and fish, as well as some water, before slipping off into the dark ocean. He would row until he got to one of the Three Sisters, and then would find himself a way onto a ship, serving if he had to, that would take him to King's Landing or Estermont. Then he would head home.

It wasn't long until he had left the bright lights of White Harbor behind, and was sailing in near darkness. His eyes soon adjusted, however. You had to have good eyes to be a good smuggler.

Then the boat started to rock. The waves were choppy, so he didn't put much thought into the matter.

Then it rocked again.

Then again.

He tried to steady the ship, but the ship wouldn't be steadied.

Then something frightful happened.

A dead boney hand attached itself to the side of the ship, and the water started to broil around him. The hand then became an arm, which became part of a grotesque, malformed skeletal monster, with empty eyes sockets, but the skin peeling on it's face. The skin was pallid, as if affected by the water. Davos was stuck, staring at the monstrosity.

Then the ship was pulled under, and Davos was lost to the sea.


	44. Arthor III

The banners of Stannis Baratheon fluttered in the cold winter wind over Castle Cerwyn, with the Cerwyn battle-axe below it. Other banners flew around the castle, but all smaller and all less prominent. They were the flags of other Northern houses that had chosen to follow Stannis Baratheon over Roose Bolton.

There were the flags of the mountain clans, including the bucket of the Wulls, and those of the Wolfswood, with the iron fist of Glover being the most noticeable of these. Then came the moose of Hornwood, to represent the few Hornwood men who had switched sides, and the Tallharts trees.

The Umber sigil flew prominently, representing Mors Umber, who had become the nominal leader of the bulk of the Northern force, with the exception of the men of the Mountain Clans, who, even here, preferred to follow their own chiefs and battle commanders, who would stand on the war councils of Stannis Baratheon.

The silver sunburst of his own house, the Karstarks of Karhold, fluttered lower down than most others. Some other Karstark men had defected over with him, but most had just headed home after the fall of Arthor's grandfather.

Arthor rode on the right side of the Kingsguard trio that headed up the party of Stannis Baratheon entering the castle that was newly declared for him.

To his left was Robin Potter, who rode on the left hand, and was the slightest of the three knights of Stannis' Kingsguard here today. Desmond Grell rode through the centre, his new white cloak streaming behind him. His back was straight, and he showed some pride in his new position. The last member of their order, Richard Horpe, was at the gate of the castle, as it had been he who negotiated the turning side of the Cerwyns.

Jonelle Cerwyn had been more than inclined to switch sides after she found out about the truth behind the death of her brother. She had been told that Theon Greyjoy had been responsible, but, in fact, it had been the Bolton bastard who had done it. The same bastard who had burned Stannis' daughter and heir alive. Stannis would have his head for the bloodshed he had caused.

"I present to you King Stannis, of the House Baratheon, First of his Name, King of the Seven Kingdoms, Lord of King's Landing, Dragonstone, and the Stormlands, Protector of the Realm, and the chosen one of R'hllor."

It was Desmond Grell that had been chosen to read off the list of titles that maester Pylos had selected for Stannis to go by on his official announcement here. It was as way of a reward, as Grell had been important in bringing House Manderly over to the side of the one true king.

It was a woman that spoke back, stood on the battlements, flanked with guards who wore the Cerwyn battle-axe.

"I, Jonelle Cerwyn, Lady of Castle Cerwyn, daughter of Medger Cerwyn, welcome into my home Stannis Baratheon, the rightful King of the Seven Kingdoms."

Jonelle Cerwyn was a plump woman, with a round face and puffy cheeks. Her hair was long and brown, and her breasts were large, which fit the rest of her frame.

Desmond Grell went to the gate first, followed by the rest of the host, as Arthor and Robin watched on. They took up the rear when the rest of the army had passed beyond the gate.

"It should have been you or I that announced our king, Karstark. Not this new knight. What loyalty does he have to Stannis? What battles has he fought in for our king? I was at the Blackwater, and at Castle Black. You fought in the Battle of Ice. Why is this new man ahead of us."

Robin Potter was more a moaner than a knight, but he raised a good point, and one that Arthor had himself been considering.

What loyalty did Desmond Grell have to Stannis? He had been a Tully man, who had then sworn himself to Wyman Manderly. Would he be willing to give his life for Stannis? He doubted it. That in turn raised the question of why Wyman had wanted another man on the Kingsguard. Had he not found Arthor as useful as he had hoped? He would have to talk with Grell later.

The two of them rode their horses beyond the gate last, and found Richard Horpe and Godry Farring organising the troops, as well as the unloading of armour. He was surprised to see that Stannis was gone so soon.

He handed his horse over to a young Cerwyn boy after dismounting, and walked over to Horpe and Farring.

"-ask me again if I give a shit about where you're sleeping, boy. Get the stuff unloaded for our king. Do it now!"

Farring liked the sound of his own voice, and liked it even more ever since news of his brother's death had filtered through from Storm's End. Combine that with the death of his nephew, and that made Godry the new head of House Farring, and he liked to remind people of that fact at every opportunity.

"Ser Richard. Lord Godry. Where has our king gone?"

That was Potter of course, who was quick to get close to the newly named Lord Farring. The two of them were close, though Horpe and Farring had been arguing more and more ever since before Horpe left. Farring wanted Winterfell for himself, whereas Horpe wanted to follow the man who had named him to the Kingsguard.

"He went with Lady Jonelle and Desmond Grell up to the Lord's Solar to discuss plans for an attack on Winterfell."

Robin nodded and made to move, but Arthor stayed stood, looking the two men stood in front of him up and down.

"And yet you two are here and not there. How does it feel to know you have been reduced to being in charge of supplies and not military counsel, Lord Farring?"

That clearly hit one of Godry's nerves, as he went to draw his sword, before Horpe stopped him.

"I can't help but notice that you are also not present for this meeting, Karstark. Maybe you should think these things through before you say them."

A shadow fell over the four of them then, and Arthor turned, to find Hugo Wull and Mors Umber stood before them.

"Karstark and Horpe have had their presence requested in Stannis' chambers. The southron knights are meant to carry on overseeing the supplies."

That was Wull, and Umber had a thin smile on his face as he looked at Farring's face as that news was broken to him. Arthor wondered why Farring had fallen out of favour with the king, but he didn't think on it too long. He disliked the man.

They climbed some wooden steps to get to the Cerwyn's Lord's Solar, and passed Ser Desmond on the way up, with him going down. There was a frown on his face until he saw them, when he replaced it with a friendly smile. Arthor wondered what had been causing him such trouble.

The Lord's Solar here was smaller than that at Karhold, and the decoration was simple, with some rusted battle-axes and swords hanging on the walls. Stannis Baratheon was seated at the desk, with Jonelle stood next to him, pointing to places on a map. They were also joined by Morgan Liddle, Ned Woods and Rodrik Forrester.

Arthor found himself stood next to a pile of furs stacked in the corner.

At least, that was what he thought, until the furs moved, and he realised that he was, in fact, stood besides Theon Greyjoy.

The boy looked older than his years, now. He remembered how he had been when he was younger, and he had changed a lot since then. His hair was brittle and grey, and his skin pasty. He was weighed down by the Stark furs that he had been given.

He had almost always been with the Wulls and the Umbers since arriving back from the Dreadfort. They had forgiven him and adopted him as one of theirs.

"Winterfell is near unassailable."

That was Wull, gesturing at the map with his large fingers. He was stood close to Stannis, as were Mors Umber and Morgan Liddle. Ricgard Horpe had taken his place behind his king.

"Bolton has too many men for us to take the castle by force. If we had the Dustins, Ryswells, and Flints then maybe, but whilst their men man his walls he is safe."

Morgan Liddle muttered his agreement at that, and Umber nodded, but Robin Peasebury stepped forward next.

"Your Grace, the Greyjoy boy took the castle with fewer men than we have. If he could do it, then surely R'hllor would grant you the power to take what we need from the heathen Boltons."

Mors Umber scoffed then.

"Theon Greyjoy took Winterfell from two boys. Roose Bolton and his bastard may be cunts, but they ain't stupid cunts. They will expect a sneak attack. No matter what Red Raloo does for you, you ain't taking Winterfell like that."

Robin scowled, but pressed on, as if unperturbed.

"Then secret passages-"

"No. The walls of Winterfell were built by Brandon the Builder himself, and he built no weaknesses."

"We could send the Manderlys-"

Jonelle Cerwyn spoke up then.

"With all due respect, my lord, there is no way Roose Bolton would allow Wyman Manderly back into Winterfell. He didn't trust him not much before, but now..."

Robin looked as if he was about to square up to Jonelle, but backed down when Mors Umber stepped in between him and the lady. It was Stannis himself that spoke next.

"Winterfell was raised many years ago by Brandon the Builder, as was the Wall. Maybe we should be looking for someone with a little more expertise than the men gathered here. Maester Tybald, step forward."

A red haired man that had been cowering in the corner came out of the shadows then. Arthor hadn't even known the Maester was present.

Tybald had been brought back to Stannis by the men that secured the Dreadfort. He was the Bolton Maester, and Stannis had named him a traitor and prisoner straight away. Arthor wondered why Tywald was here, and not Stannis' own Maester, Pylos.

"Read the letter."

Tywald nervously unfurled a piece of paper, and began reading. He spoke with an unsure tone, and some of the Northern generals snorted or scoffed at him.

"I, Lord Sigorn of House Thenn, write to all the Lords of the North to express my good will, and to extend the hand of friendship. My father was a man of the Free Folk, some of you would call him a wildling. He was Styr, Magnar of Thenn. I am his heir. I write in the name of Jon Snow, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, who had me married to Lady Alys, of House Karstark."

Arthor cocked his head at that. Little Alys had been wedded to a wildling war chief? What had she been thinking?

"I write to you from my new seat of Karhold-"

That was met by cries of uproar from the Northerners in the room. Wull stamped his feet, whilst Mors Umber thumped the wall and the king's own table. It was Morgan Liddle that called out to the room.

"Karhold is the seat of an ancient house of the North. It will not be held by no wildling king."

"House Karstark is all but dead, Liddle. All that remains of it is this Alys girl, and our own Arthor and his father, who, as I understand, submitted the castle to this Sigorn boy."

The voices of dissent were less muted after that, but Mors Umber still wore a thunderous face, and it looked like he was looking for a golld, old fight now. Arthor hoped that Robin Peasebury kept quiet from now on, for his own sake.

"The letter offers his friendship to all the Lords of the North, and talks about his peaceful conquest of the castle. I want him as an ally, and he want his knee bent before me."

"Then force the wildlings to bend the knee. They will be little competition away from their villages and their forests."

Stannis scowled at Liddle for that, and he backed down.

"I am sending some envoys to negotiate peace with this Sigorn boy. Who better to lead it than a Karstark."

Arthor looked up at that, and met the eyes of his king.

"I cannot leave your side-"

Stannis waved that off.

"I am more than well enough protected in this castle, and with Sers Horpe, Potter and Grell, it is hardly fair to say that my Kingsguard will be left undermanned. Go swiftly, and ride back before we battle. I will want you by my side."

Arthor nodded then and left, only to find the Cerwyn gates opened once again. When he looked down into the courtyard he saw Manderly, Mormont, Glover, Hornwood, and Blackwood flags fluttering in the breeze. He knew what that meant, of course. Wyman Manderly had arrived.

It did not take too long to find the large lord. He had already made his way to his chambers. When he got there he found he had been joined by Bartimus, as well as Brynden Blackwood, Robett Glover, and a singer.

"I helped him escape, Lord Hand, as you said to do."

Arthor walked in on Robett talking, and witnessed Wyman waving him to silence.

"You have done well, Robett. Go, find your brother. He is down with the caravans, I expect. Tell him I wish to talk with him and Lady Mormont later. Over dinner, maybe. I do hope that dear Lady Jonelle has some lamprey for me. She knows how much I love them."

Robett nodded then, and left silently, with Blackwood following him out. Wyman then feigned as if he had only just seen Arthor.

"Ah! My dear, Ser Karstark! I was wondering when I would be blessed with your noble visage. Has your king sent for me?"

Arthor stepped further into the room.

"I don't think he even knows you are here yet. He takes counsel on matters of war. Hardly your expertise, is it, Manderly?"

Wyman faked an expression of hurt at that jibe.

"I will have you know, Ser, that I fought on the Trident besides my Lord Stark and his Baratheon friend. I am a knight! I know more about warfare than people would assume when they look upon me, just as, I am sure, you know more about farming than you would care to admit."

Bartimus sniggered at that, and Arthor cast a glance his way. The knight was less drunk than he usually was. Clearly he had decided to make an effort for when he was presented to the King.

The singer drew Karstark's eyes, however. He was a man of middling height, with a gaunt, sharp face, and clever eyes. His head was bald, and wet from the flakes of snow that had just fallen on it. He wore cloth of black and red. He could see the man's eyes scanning him, and a smile flicker onto his face.

It was Lord Manderly that broke the silence.

"Ahh, I see you eyeing up my newest friend, Ser Karstark. This is Abel. He is a singer. My court was without one, and I do love some songs as I eat. Abel has a fair voice, and plays well, if you would like to hear him..."

Arthor shrugged him off.

"Later, maybe. We have no time for this now. My King expects me to ride for Karhold."

Wyman looked genuinely concerned at that, though it was most likely an act.

"Has he sent you away, Ser Karstark? I would hate to find out that all the vigour you put into serving him has gone to naught. I would happily take you into mine own service-"

Arthor raised his hand.

"He has not sent me away, Manderly. He is sending me to bring the King's peace. I shall bring Karhold into the fold, as we already did the Dreadfort."

"The journey to Karhold is a long one, and Roose Bolton has men and raiding parties crawling the area. Do you think he would just allow a lone rider passage? He would have you cut down, and your flayed skull sent to King Stannis. Trust me. I know the man."

"I do not fear Roose Bolton."

Wyman waved his hands, as if denying that was what he meant.

"It is not the father you should fear, but the son. I saw what he did with the Greyjoy boy, and with his little wife. Obviously you know what he did to the young Baratheon girl. He is a crazed madman."

"I would happily encounter Ramsay Bolton so I can avenge my King's wife and daughter. He would meet his end against my sword."

Wyman smiled at that.

"Of course, of course. He should fear your lust for vengeance, Ser Karstark. Why do you come to me with news of your departure? I would have thought you would want to leave as soon as you could."

"I need riders to come with me. You have men to spare. I ask for followers, so I do not ride alone."

Wyman nodded at that, and a rye smile crossed his face.

"Of course, Ser. That is not because Roose Bolton scares you. I am sure you just want the company. Very well. I will send my cousin with you. I am sure he will enjoy it. He dislikes being cooped up in politics. You may take Ser Robin Ryger, as well, and I am sure my cousin will pick out some choice men to join you. Leave me now, Karstark. I have other things to talk to other people about."

Arthor did as Wyman asked, and left his rooms. He found Ser Marlon Manderly standing in the main courtyard. The man was shorter than Arthor, but is still tall, yet appears stout at the same time. His grey beard was short.

"Ser Marlon!"

He called to the man, who turned to him, and then cracked a smile. He knew Ser Marlon from some summers before, when Lord Rickard had led them on a hunt with some men from White Harbour and Hornwood. He had been young then, and had squired for the knights of Manderly, Ser Marlon and Lord Wyman's two sons.

"Little squire! You've grown so tall! And a knight now, too, I hear!"

"Your cousin has sent me to tell you that you shall ride with me to Karhold. We must catch up over old times."

He felt like he was a little boy again, talking to the man, even though he was now shorter than Arthor, he had seemed a giant when Arthor had been a boy.

"I look forward to the ride. I hate to be cooped up in these castles. Mayhaps we can find some Boltons to kill along the way-"

"Lone rider!"

That call came from the battlements above them. Both men instinctively went for their swords, but then the horn sounded the all clear. Whoever it was, they were being allowed entry.

The gates opened, and a man in armour rode through. It was dented and old, and masked his face from view. He removed it, and Arthor saw a youth of no more than fifteen years, with a shock of brown hair and a bright smile. He dismounted, and stood before Arthor, his helmet held underneath his arm.

"Friend! My name is Aegor Stane, of the Skagosi, and friend of Ser Davos Seaworth. My father has sent me to talk with Lord Wyman Manderly. Could you tell me where he resides?"


	45. The Queen's Captain

Victarion Greyjoy looked out over the choppy waters, and then on to the great city of Astapor in the distance. It had once stood proud, the nearest of the three slave cities to the gate of Slaver's Bay, but now it felt dark and covered in shadow. The clouds above them were dark, too, and foreboding. He wanted to land his ship soon, so as to avoid cruel winds and harsh rains.

"Ship sailing our way, captain!"

The far-eyes called down to him, and Victarion stepped closer to the edge of the prow. There was indeed a ship cutting through the waves towards him. It flew the flag of the corsairs, but there was another, more familiar flag flying from it's mast.

"That's a Stonehouse ship. Why is it flying the flag of the corsairs, and not the golden kraken of the Iron Islands, as it should be?"

"I fear you are about to meet an old friend, captain. Listen to what he has to say. Remember, R'hllor needs you to secure these ships. This man could be a way for that to happen."

Moqorro swept up from behind him, and, if Victarion had been easier to scare, could have caused him to jump. He had made no sound on the deck. The Red Priest had come with him, despite the fact that Victarion had never asked for his company.

He flexed his charred hand, and was glad to feel more movement in it than he had before. The red priest saw him move his fingers, and nodded, almost as if to himself.

"You live, captain. Your purpose is yet to be achieved."

Victarion grunted. He didn't want to listen to the riddles of the ebony skinned red priest. Not when he had an important mission to complete. Succeed here and Daenerys would wed him, give him a son and a dragon, and then he could destroy his thrice accursed brother.

"Is that the Iron Victory I spy?"

Something flew past Victarion's head, and then a clunk came from behind him. When he turned he found Red Ralf Stonehouse stood on the deck, with the rope that he had swung over on already swinging back to the Red Jester.

"And Victarion Greyjoy captains her still. I assumed you were dead, old friend. I had heard that your brother had sailed himself to Slaver's Bay and defeated the Yunkish at Meereen."

"And I heard your ships had disappeared. Why do I now find you flying the flag of the corsairs and no longer the golden kraken, as should be flying from your mast?"

Ralf Stonehouse shrugged at that, and moved to the side of the ship, looking at where the Red Jester had pulled itself up on the water. It was not calm, but nor was it too stormy. The two of them were hit by spray, though. The saltwater felt good against Victarion's skin.

"The Corsair King came to me. He saved me from the dangers of the route you sent me on. My ship was the only one to survive, and much of my crew fell over the side. He told me that I still had a role to play, provided I join him, and I chose that over death. The Drowned God can have me one day, but I am not ready for his halls just yet."

"What is this Corsair King like?"

Ralf shrugged again.

"I don't really know. He doesn't talk much, and he barely show himself to his captains. You will probably have to talk to his lieutenant, if you are here to talk, and not to attack. You have one ship, so I assume talking is your aim."

"Talking is what I am good at."

The two of them turned, and found Tyrion Lannister on the deck. The dwarf had clearly pulled himself out from below decks to see what was going on. He waddled over, and offered his hand to Ralf, who looked at Victarion qustioningly.

"Ralf Stonehouse, meet the Imp of Lannister. He thinks himself a talker, but most men here think him too clever. We should have thrown him overboard the moment we set out from Meereen."

Tyrion Lannister put on an impression of mock hurt at that remark.

"I would not do that, kraken friend. Your axe will take a long time to draw, and my sword will be through your chest before you have the chance to heft it. Think on that again."

He should have known. The Imp was, as he had been this entire journey, followed by the sellsword captain Daario Naharis.

The man was roguish and arrogant, and Victarion had taken a quick disliking to his frivolties. He was a strong swordsman, no doubt, but relied on trickery and cunning more than strength and power. These were not traits that he valued as highly on the battlefield.

"And Daario Naharis, Captain of the Stormcrows. They are those sent with me on my journey, as they could not be sent by themselves. They are not to be trusted."

Naharis laughed at that, and stepped forwards, towards Victarion and Ralf.

"And you are, captain? Ser Barristan sent you from the city for he does not trust you. He knows of the Greyjoy name, and fears you will turn on him and take Meereen for your own."

"It is not Barristan Selmy I am interested in, sellsword. I will deliver him these ships, and then he will deliver me the dragon queen, naked and shaved, just as I like them."

That caused Naharis to bristle, and the man moved his hand towards his sword, but found Tyrion Lannister stood in between the two of them.

"Now, now, friends. We are all allies here. I am sure Daenerys Targaryen would not be thankful should one of you kill the other. You are both strong friends to her."

"As you say, Lord Lannister. I will not kill the kraken today, then."

Naharis sheathed his sword, and instead turned to look Ralf up and down, surveying the man.

Red Ralf Stonehouse was not as tall as Victarion, and had bristley red whiskers, with flaming red hair on top of his head. His muscles were strong, and he was as good with an axe as any man Victarion knew.

"You are the man sent from Astapor? You do not look like the corsairs that I played at dice with in the older days."

"I am Ironborn, sellsword. I roam the seas, and am nobodies servant."

"You seem like a servant to me, friend. Your master sent you out here on a whim and you followed. Mayhaps you should ask him whether he thinks you a servant."

Ralf flushed red at that remark, and Victarion half thought he would kill the sellsword captain then and there, but he did not, unfortunately. Instead he turned to Victarion and spoke.

"I have been instructed that you cannot dock at Astapor. I am allowed to take a party of ten men ashore, so that you can talk with my King and see what deal you can strike."

He assembled his party there and then. He would take Tom Tidewood, Longwater and Ragnor Pyke, Rodrik Sparr, and Wulfe One-Ear to represent the Ironborn, and they would be joined by Tyrion Lannister, Daario Naharis and Moqorro.

"That's nine, Ralf. I expect an even warmer welcome than if I brought ten. Steffar, you take command whilst I am away."

Victarion and his party boarded the Red Jester then, and Ralf started barking orders. Victario didn't recognise most of the men, and then it dawned on him that these would be people the Corsair King had recruited for Ralf. He spotted a few Ironborn on the deck, but not many.

"Five survivors, Lord Captain. Me included. Most of these men were taken after the fall of Astapor. The Red Jester was the third ship to pull into port, after the Corsair King's and that of his lieutenant."

There was pride in the way that Ralf Stonehouse spoke of his achievement.

"What ships do they captain?"

"The King captains the Valyrian Roar, and the other is the Whore's Debt. A strange name for a ship, I grant you that."

They sailed the rest of the way in silence, as Victarion looked down at the deep water, and thought of all the men whose bodies must lie at the bottom, never allowed entry into the halls of the Drowned God.

Moqorro had shown him the light of R'hllor, and had used that light to save his life, but he knew that the Drowned God still watched over him. Maybe they were one and the same. Maybe water and fire, exact opposites, were the same thing.

Victarion shook his head at that. He didn't like thinking that deep. He should leave these thoughts of gods and religion to Aeron, who said that he could hear the Drowned God speaking to him.

The walk from the docks of Astapor to the Grand Pyramid was a short one, but it was loud. The streets were lined with corsairs and pirates. They were thieves and rapers the lot of them, who didn't understand the honour in reaving or in a well fought battle. These men were dirty and covered in grime and sweat. They eyed up his armour and jeered at him, but he had met their ilk before, and sent more than a few to an early grave. They did not scare him.

Nor did they scare the sellsword, who walked through the streets of the city with an easy swagger, even when some of the corsairs attempted to throw rotted fruit in his direction. He dodged their jibes with ease.

Ralf Stonehouse walked at the front of their party, and was the only one to avoid the jeers and the abuse of the lined masses. Clearly some of them recognised him, as they called out greetings, before turning on Victarion and his group.

The Great Pyramid of Astapor was smaller than even some of the smaller ones in Meereen. From it hang the black banners of the corsairs, and the streets were lined with pikes that were adorned with the heads of the dead slavers that had defied their wishes. Their dead eyes stared down on Victarion as he passed.

The guards in the pyramid let them pass with no trouble. Ralf Stonehouse helped that, but it looked to Victarion like they were expected. These men had been told to let them pass in advance.

They were taken to a dark room, where the only light source was the shallow sun'd rays filtering in through the glass windows. There was a great staircase before them, and then Ralf turned to them again.

"I should warn you, Lord Captain, that the person you will be talking to isn't who you would expect."

"I am expecting to talk to a king. A king to a king, Ralf. That should be how it is."

He heard a laugh then, and a voice echoed down to them.

"You are no king, Lord Greyjoy. Nor am I. I wear no crown and carry no sceptre. A king they call me, though. The King of the Seas and the King of Hope, for you, at least."

When he looked up, he saw something he hadn't been expecting. It was a woman stood at the top of the steps.

She was fair, with hair as blonde as gold, and eyes that were the same blue as the calm sea outside of Lannisport. Her face was tanned, and she was slender around the waist, but still looked like she had muscle to her. She was tall, too. Victarion was enchanted.

No, no. This was not the woman he was here to wed. This woman could not give him dragons, or give him Euron burned to a crisp. She was not the man that he had to marry if he wanted his throne, and justice for Balon.

"I am the Corsair King, Lord Greyjoy! Gaze upon my beauty and be lost forever! You come here flying the dragon of Targaryen! What brings you?"

"They seek ships. They wish to flee their city. They come to us, m'lady."

The woman slinked down the stairs, and walked to stand close to Victarion. Her eyes were even more mesmerizing from here.

"I did not take you for a runner, Lord Captain. I thought you would be a fighter. I have heard stories of Victarion Greyjoy, who wears full iron plate into battle for the depths of the sea do not scare him. Is that not who stands before me?"

"Aye. I am him."

The woman turned, and shot him a look over her shoulder.

"Then tell me why I should send my fleet to your aid, Lord Captain. What do I get in return?"

Victarion looked her up and down again. He had some good men with him here, but he wouldn't be able to fight his way out of the city, if it came to that. Maybe he should just fuck the bitch until she gave him what he came for.

"I think my captain may not be the best with words, your grace. Allow me to speak on his behalf."

Victarion snorted, and glared at the Imp, who had stepped forwards. The dwarf didn't even look in his direction.

"It is not for us that we ask. We ask for the people of Meereen who are dying every day, of starvation and poverty. Allow them to be saved, and allow good men to live on, and you shall have done your service."

The woman looked taken aback by the dwarf stepping forward, and Victarion thought he even spotted a snarl on her face for a few seconds, but then it reset.

"You ask me to lend you my ships as a good deed, dwarf? Who are you that would proposition me as such?"

The dwarf did a fake bow, then.

"My name is- My name is Tyrion Lannister, Slayer of Fathers and Husband to Whores. Who would you be?"

"I told you. I am the Corsair-"

"Stop. That's enough, Shyra! You have served your purpose!"

That voice came from above again. When Victarion looked up he found a man stood at the top of the stairs.

He was a thin and slender man, with dark hair, and green eyes. He walked down the stairs carefully, a thin smile on his face. He stopped at the bottom and moved himself before both Victarion and the Imp.

"I am the Corsair King, as true as can be. I am sorry for the deception, but I wanted to learn more about you, and wanted to hear the dwarf speak up. I was curious as to why an unknown dwarf was sailing with the Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet."

"It would not be so if I could have avoided it."

"And yet you let him negotiate for you, Greyjoy. Maybe you yourself realise that he is better with words. I find Lannisters usually are."

The girl coughed then, and spoke up.

"Never trust a Lannister, my King. That is what you told me."

"Never trust a Greyjoy, either. Those are my policies, that is true. I feel we can make an exception with our friends here. I was burned by your brother once, Lord Captain. The Crow's Eye."

Victarion snorted.

"Then we can bond over that. My brother may be my blood, but he is my enemy."

The Corsair King laughed. It was a sweeter laugh than a pirate should have. Victarion could tell why this one called himself a king. He had the kind of voice that you got in the south of Westeros, from places like Oldtown or Lannisport.

"You ask for my ships, and in return offer nothing. I have my price, for a Lannister and a Greyjoy. I ask for half the wealth of Casterly Rock-"

"Is that all?"

A morbid smile appeared on the face of the Corsair King as he prepared to give his second demand.

"And for the head of Euron Greyjoy to be placed upon my mast."


	46. Samwell III

Sam wasn't used to wearing his official clothes. He had gotten used to the comfortable robes of a novice at the Citadel. He had already acquired his first link, the black iron of ravenry, thanks to the lessons that Maester Aemon had given him.

Tonight, however, he was wearing the green robes that Leo Tyrell had found for him. They were clasped together by a red bow made of ruby, to sumbolise the colours of House Tarly. It was an evening where he had to be seen as highborn, though Sam had insisted the trim be in black, to represent his service to the Night's Watch.

The High Tower of Oldtown stood over them, it's shadow cast over the sprawling city below it. Oldtown never truly slept, Sam had found. If the markets weren't open, or the Citadel wasn't buzzing with activity, then men and women found their way to the may inns or brothels that the city had to offer. Sam, of course, had not been in any of the latter.

Then there were the temples further down the Honeywine.

There was the Temple to the Red God, R'hllor. The Archmaester of the Platinum Mask, which represented the study of global religions and cultures, had told Sam about the red god and his worshippers of fire. It was a curious religion.

The true jewel of the Oldtown religious scene was the ancient Starry Sept, which, for many years, had stood as the home of the High Septon, he who supposedly spoke with the Seven, and who represented all the septons and septas of Westeros.

The current High Septon was a lowborn man from Oldtown, said some of the highborn septons who Sam had met, all with a snooty impression and manner.

Sam had known plenty of lowborn men at the Wall who had been good men. There had been Pyp and Grenn, and Toad and Owen the Oaf and Mully, but he had heard from none of them since news of Jon's death came through.

He tried to put all thoughts of the Wall to the back of his mind, as he had been doing ever since arriving in Oldtown many months ago.

He looked at his companions then, and saw they were as far away from the people he had known at the Wall as one could find.

The first was Robert Frey, who was almost too large for his clothes of blue and white, representing the twin towers of Frey, a house from the Riverlands. Sam had found it easy to warm to the boy, who was even more timid than he, and larger too, and felt bad for the mockery that the boy came under.

Then came Adrian Charlton and Hormund Lannister, two younger boys.

Adrian was one of Robert's friends, and was part of Leo's circle because of that. He was a pale boy with dark hair, whilst Hormund was a Lannister of Lannisport, a cousin branch of the Lannisters of Casterly Rock. He had the blonde Lannister hair, though it was less gold than sandy. His eyes had a constant vacant expression.

After that were Leo's true closest friends. There was Alyn Cockshaw, who was of an age with Leo and Sam. He was an arrogant man, with brown hair and manly good looks, and then Ser Theo Graves, who had been knighted by Sam's own father before being sent to the Citadel for fathering one too many bastards.

Then came Leo Tyrell, of course.

Lazy Leo, as they called him in the Citadel, was one of the most prominent acolytes of the place, and the trusted right hand of Archmaester Marwyn, who had left the city not long after Sam had first arrived. Since then he had earned his Valyrian Steel link, and was now in charge of leading the tests for that link, as he was the most experienced maester in that field at the Citadel.

For once, he wasn't drunk. Whether that was because he expected to be drinking too much tonight, or because he wanted to make a good impression on their hosts, Sam was unsure. Maybe it was just a mix of both.

"Look, fellows. For most of you this is your first time attending one of these feasts, and I will tell you now. We are representing the Citadel, but, more importantly, you are all representing me, and I will not have you ruining the reputation I have here."

"Now, there will be a lot of food on display, but be restrained. I am, of course, looking at you Robert."

That caused Alyn and Theo to laugh, but Robert let out a little whimper. He was quick to reaffirm Leo's ego when it was a joke at someone else's expense, but hated it when they were directed at him, yet he was too timid to speak up in his own defense. Sam really did feel for him.

"Come, friends. Let us feast."

Leo led them towards the drawbridge that had been lowered for the Hightower party that night. Behind him came Theo and Alyn, obviously, and then Robert and Sam, with Hormund and Adrian holding up the rear.

The main hall of the High Tower was circular, with many banners and relics adorning the walls. A great circular table sat in the centre, covered with all sorts of foods. Sam recalled the feasts that Hobb had served them at the Wall, and gasped at the difference that the south had over the North.

He also looked around at the gathered gentry.

Most of them wore badges that bore crests of their house. He spied Tyrell roses, Bulwer skulls, and bees of Beesbury, amongst others. The lords and ladies of the houses that surrounded Oldtown, and fed off the commerce of the Honeywine, had gathered here in force.

"-Overe there is Alekyne Florent, who contests the Lordship of Brightwater Keep with my cousin, Garlan!"

Leo was in the middle of bringing attention to some of the notable people that were in attendance for the evening. He was currently pointing to a nervous man of about thirty, with the pointed Florent ears that Sam knew all too well.

Alekyne Florent was, of course, his uncle. He was the brother of Sam's mother, and had made visits to Horn Hill on occassion. The two of them had never really bonded, though that was mostly because Alekyne was a shy man who kept himself to himself. Sam's lord father had hated him, and had always held hope that Dickon would inherit Brightwater instead.

"And there is Ser Garth Greysteel, the second son of Lord Leyton Hightower. You know him. He mans the defense of Oldtown by land, along with my father. He is a feared knight, and a brute of a man."

Leo sounded almost as if he was admiring the man. Sam had never met Garth Hightower, but he knew him by reputation. The man was wed, but held many women lovers. He was a force of nature, also they said down in the Oldtown inns, and argued daily with his father, who Garth saw as being too passive.

He was a mighty man, standing well over six and a half foot, and even here wore chainmail, visible underneath his Hightower jerkin.

"Now, I give you permission to go and feast, and to socialise, too. Remember, we represent the Citadel, and there are some wealthy persons here. Do whatever you can to get your preferred course some funding, I would say."

The rest of them scattered then, leaving Leo and Sam together. They were the only ones here representing Marwyn, of course. Hormund and Alyn both served under Archmaester Vaellyn, who looked to the stars, whilst Robert Frey was trying for his ravenry link. Sam wasn't even sure which school Theo Graves was in.

"Come, Sam the Slayer, we have work to do."

Sam followed Leo, who walked with an easy arrogance through the gathered crowd. He was at home in these large social events, whereas Sam was about as far out of his comfort zone as he could be. He disliked the pomp and the people, all of whom stared at him as he went past.

The raven telling of the imprisonment of Sam's father- as well as the death of his brother- had come a few days before. Still, the gentry gathered here were shocked at what seemed like the fall of the Tarlys of Horn Hill. A girl sat on their high seat, and Sam felt for Talla, and, strangely, even felt for Dickon.

His brother had never treated him well, but neither had Sam's father, and Dickon was just doing what he thought would make Randyll happy. Had he been a cruel boy, or just a boy led down a cruel road by a man who needed to control the lives of everyone in his family?

Sam wasn't sure, but he felt the eyes of all those gathered here upon him, as he followed Lazy Leo Tyrell through the crowds.

Leo led him out of the main hall, and up a flight of stairs, to a covered balcony that looked out over the circular hall below. It was empty, but for three figures.

The first was a maid, who Sam recognised instantly.

"Gilly?"

"Sam!"

She ran to him, and wrapped her arms around him. Sam saw Leo look in his direction, an impressed look on his face. He ignored him.

Gilly had him in a tight embrace. Her arms were slender, and her form fit to Sam perfectly. He remembered how they had been on the boat down, how she had love him, and he had loved her in return. Would they ever be able to get that feeling back.

Then there was a cough, and Gilly let go. Sam turned his eyes on the next of the three figures.

He was an older man, maybe fifty seven years past, with greying hair and a speckled grey beard. He was still in good shape despite his age, however, with thick arms and broad shoulders. His skin was tanned.

The other was a woman, who wore a drab, green dress, and who had her hair long and messy. Her eyes were mesmerising, and flitted between being green and being grey.

"Slayer, may I present you to Lord Leyton Hightower, and his beautiful daughter, Malora, the Mad Maid of Oldtown."

Sam had heard tales of Malora Hightower, mostly from the knights sworn to his father. She had locked herself up with books of spells and prophecy at a young age, and had sworn to never have a man take her until the truth began to come out. She had been a childhood friend of Marwyn, some novices of the Citadel claimed.

"My- My Lord- I did not know I would be talking with you."

Leo slapped him on the back and stepped forward.

"You aren't here to talk, Slayer. You are here to listen to what we have to say. Lady Malora has been having visions she wishes to share with us. They concern her father deeply."

Sam looked at the Mad Maid, and found her eyes looking into his. They were a light blue, with dark pupils. They felt like they were looking deep inside him. Those eyes scared him.

"I have seen you in my dreams, Samwell Tarly. You killed one of the marchers. Yes. Yes it was you. You have met one of the dragons that will save us all. More than one maybe. I cannot tell."

"D- Dragons?"

"Yes. It must have three heads. Three dragons to stop us from the doom that walks beyond the Wall. I have seen it."

Sam gulped at the thought of the army of the dead that was slowly coming south.

"You have seen them? You know that they are real?"

"I saw you at the Fist of the First Men. I knew you would be important. You are tied with the Night's Watch, Samwell Tarly. Their blood is your blood, and you are all one house. Why are you here?"

Leo rolled his eyes, and tried to step into the conversation, but Sam couldn't let him. The lady intrigued him, and she believed him about the white walkers.

"Jon sent me here, to train to become a Maester in the Citadel."

She cocked her head at that, and a look of fear came upon her face.

"He did not send you. Another did. One who needed you away from the Wall. One who wanted you gone."

"No. It was Jon. I remember the conversation-"

Malora's eyes snapped on to Leo Tyrell then.

"You have not told him? He does not know about how we influence the minds of those who must be manipulated."

"He does not."

Malora's eyes turned back onto Sam, but they had changed colour to a pale white. She started to shake.

"You have much to learn, Samwell Tarly, but not here, and not now. You must get the book. He is here. The Crow has come for us!"

Just then the High Tower shook, and Leo Tyrell fell to the floor, rubble crashed to the floor below them, and Sam heard some ladies screaming, and the sound of steel being drawn by the guards.

"Malora, we must go. We can't let him find you."

That was her father. He was holding her hand, but she wasn't paying him any heed. She looked in pain. Her eyes kept flitting around the room.

"The lone wolf dies but the pack survives. For the Watch. He comes. Euron king. He comes. The crow comes. Find the pack. Find it, Samwell."

Leo had grasped hold of Sam's hand then, and was pulling him away. Sam couldn't hear anything but Malora's scrambled words, however. Then he heard Gilly's sweet voice in his ear.

"We have to go, Sam. Come on."

Life seemed to be happening in slow motion, and it took a long time for Sam to find his way to the bottom of the stairs. Rock had landed on the floor, and he could just about make out the upper body of Theo Graves. The rest of him was crushed underneath the boulder.

Leo pulled him down a side passage, and, after a short while, he felt cool air on his face. They found the others that had come to the feast waiting for them outside. Alyn stepped towards them.

"Theo-"

"I saw. We have to go. You all know what the Mage wanted us to do should this happen. We have to get out of the city. Find my father and he can get us out of here."

Leo led them around the base of the High Tower, back towards the square in front of the mighty building. A crowd had gathered, and Sam ran towards it. He had to know who else had made it out. Uncle Alekyne had been in there.

The crowd was mostly smallfolk, but Sam spotted the odd highborn who had made it out. There was no sign of his uncle, however.

Just then, a tall brute stepped down from the High Tower. He had braids of fiery red hair. Behind him came four men, who each bore the sigil of a house from the Iron Islands. Sam easily recognised the sigils of Houses Drumm, Goodbrother, Volmark, and Harlaw.

Behind them came three figures, each being dragged by two Ironborn. Sam recognised two of them as being Malora and her father. The other was an unknown.

"Come on, Slayer. We have to go. There is no more to see here. Nothing you want to see, anyway."

Sam couldn't move, though. He watched as two more Ironborn brought forward a barrell of water, and then as the red-haired man forced Leyton Hightower's head underneath it, his body thrashing against it, until he went limp.

He watched as the man carved a smile into the face of the unknown man, before then removing both of his hands.

He even watched as the man raped Malora, in front of the crowd, and he met her eyes as it happened. Then the others took her. Then members of the crowd.

Only then did Sam run.

He caught up with Leo on the edge of the square, and saw that the others had all waited for him. Gilly was there, too. He felt tears running down his face.

"We've wasted too long already, Slayer. Come on!"

Then they all ran together.

Hormund was the first to fall. He was hit through the eye by a stray arrow.

Leo led them down another alley, and then Alyn was laid on the floor, an axe buried through his head.

Then Adrian Charlton found his head crushed in by some falling masonry.

Robert Frey was bent double after a while of running. They were down a back alley, and Leo was pacing angrily.

"It wasn't supposed to happen yet. No. Not like this. The Mage promised me it would be later. He promised me I wouldn't die here."

Then the shadows of two men fell upon them. Sam looked up, and found him looking at two ugly men. One of them wore the crest of House Codd, and the other bore the needle of Sharp.

"Look what we have 'ere, Eldred. Three 'ighborns and a pretty girl got 'emselves away from the Oarsman. Maybe we should return 'em."

The man who didn't speak grinned. His mouth was full of rotten teeth.

"Or maybe we should kill 'em and take their fancy clothes for our own bastards, Harmund."

Harmund Sharp nodded.

"I like that plan better."

Leo Tyrell drew his sword, and the two men laughed.

"Come at me then, boy."

Leo clashed swords with the one who had the Sharp sigil. Meanwhile the Codd stuck his sword straight through Robert's chest. The Frey boy dropped to the floor. Sam gulped and backed away from the three of them.

Leo held them off, and then drove his sword through Harmund's leg, causing the Ironborn man to drop to the floor.

Leo turned to face the other then, but found Eldred had already slashed the sword across his throat. He turned to Sam, spluttered, and then dropped.

Codd then advanced on Sam, who was cowering. Gilly was with him, too. Looking up at the man. She grabbed him by the arm, and the Ironborn laughed.

"This your girl, fattie? Should I rape her before I kill you, then?"

An arrow then flew through the air, and hit him in the head. Codd topped backwards, on top of Sharp.

"You do nothing, friend. Come, Sam the Slayer. We must run."

Sam looked up, and saw Alleras on the rooftops. He dropped down, and began to run. He took Gilly's hand, and they took off after the Dornish boy.

It was a short run, and soon Sam realised that he was being taken to the Quill and Tankard. They passed the ravenry on the way, and Sam looked to Marwyn's chambers, only to see a man stood in the window.

He was pale and handsome, with long, dark hair. He wore an eye patch over his right eye, and the eye that Sam could see was a dark red, the colour of blood. There was a look of anger on his face.

The island that contained the Quill and Tankard inn was crowded, and as they crossed the bridged they were met with spearmen, all of whom wore the uniform that designated them as men of the city watch of Oldtown.

Sam spotted Moryn Tyrell marshalling them on horseback. He wondered if he should go and tell him of his son's death, but now didn't seem the time or the place.

Instead Alleras took him to the side, where Armen, Roone and Mossander were gathered. There was also a trunk. Sam's trunk, to be exact.

"I saved it from your quarters, friend. Then I came to save you. It is a shame that Little Leo died."

"Why did you get my stuff?"

Alleras smiled a funny grin. It was as if he knew some practical joke that Sam was yet to be made aware of.

"Come, friend. We should get on a ship and sail to safety. Then I will tell you all I know. Then you shall know the truth."

That was what Sam did. He boarded a ship with Roone, Mossander, Armen and Alleras, and listened as the boy opened up to him of an epic story about betrayals, murder, mistaken identity, and a war that was to save all of humanity.

Behind them, the great city of Oldtown burned.


	47. Cersei II

Cersei Lannister woke up from her slumber, and found Mathis Rowan laid alongside her. The Lord of Goldengrove was not an unattractive man, but he was nothing like Jaime. He wasn't even anything like Lancel. He was as foolish as her cousin, and she could use him in the same way, but Mathis was stronger, and was more capable of standing up for himself than Lancel ever had been.

She pulled herself out of his bed, and walked to the small window that looked out over the courtyard. It was still early. She couldn't leave yet, though. There were eyes everywhere in this city, and even more so in this castle.

"You're awake early, my queen. Is something troubling you? Can I help with anything?"

She turned, and found Mathis sat up in his bed. He was naked of course, as was she. She slinked over to him and ran her slender fingers through his hair.

"You've done enough, my Lord. Did I thank you well for your services last night?"

He grabbed her hand gently, and smiled.

"I think I could do with being thanked again, my Queen."

She pulled her hand away, and then stroked it down his cheek. His skin was softer than it looked, and it felt good under her fingers, she pinched lightly, and smiled as Mathis winced. She then slipped her hand down his body and reached for the pole that he had between his legs. He was hard. No surprises there, though.

"Maybe later, my Lord. We have a long day. If you behave- Well, then who knows what might happen. You have to carry on serving me well, though."

Mathis leant back then, and it wasn't long before he was back asleep.

What a fool he was. Was she alright? Of course she wasn't. She was about to watch her daughter be crowned and wed by a priest that had brought her more shame than she cared to remember. Not only that, but it would be the Dornish bastard that led her to her new husband, the soppy Dornish prince for the subsequent wedding.

That should be her.

Myrcella was her daughter. It had been she that had gone through the pain of childbirth to bring her into the world, not this bastard. Why would Myrcella prefer this girl to her? Why would she give all the power of the Seven Kingdoms to some smelly Dornish girl and her crippled uncle?

Of course, Cersei knew who was truly to blame for all this. It had been her dwarf brother that had sent Myrcella to Dorne in the first place. He had said it was for her own good, but he hadn't seen this coup coming, had he?

Or had he?

Had this been his plan all along? First he would send Myrcella away, and then he would kill Joffrey and then father. Was he in Sunspear now, laughing his wretched, malformed head off with the Prince of Dorne? Had he turned his back on their family to that extent?

No, if the twisted Imp was there then Balon Swann would have mentioned it when he wrote back to King's Landing from Sunspear. He was somewhere else, no doubt laughing at how he had brought both Joff and then father down.

Tywin Lannister had been one of the most feared men in the history of the Seven Kingdoms. No other man could intimidate a lord into submission just by sending a bard to sing a single song. He would never have allowed Doran Martell to seize as much power as he had. He wouldn't have allowed Margaery and her bitch grandmother to walk into the city and act the way they had acted. He wouldn't have stood for the shame that the High Septon had doled out on her. He would have defended her honour.

Clearly he was the only one who would.

Where had Jaime been when she needed him most? He had vanished. They said that he was dead, but she didn't believe that, but he may as well be dead to her.

Her uncle Kevan had done nothing to help her either. He had taken power for himself and then just allowed her to suffer, and for her to be walked through the streets naked and shamed. She was glad that he was dead He had been killed by the dwarf, apparently. At least he could do some things right, then.

Then there were the others, who were supposedly loyal to her. Pycelle and Meryn Trant. Neither of them had come to her. The Kettleblacks had abandoned her when she needed them. Boros Blount was too coward to do anything much.

She wondered whether the Spider was still around. She had hated the thought that he was hiding beneath the city with the twisted, little Imp, but he must be long gone now. What was there for him here? He had lost everything when he decided to help free Tyrion from his cold jail cell, with the help of the Tyrells, of course.

There was Qyburn. He was loyal to her, and Mathis, of course. She controlled him with the weapon that controlled men the best.

She did not have to do that with Qyburn. The man was old, she doubted that he could still get hard, let alone maintain it for long enough. Besides, he followed her for the power that she had promised him. He would not betray her.

Of course, she was not forgetting her own giant. Robert Strong was a better pawn than Qyburn. He could defeat any knight in the city, if she asked him to. Randyll Tarly wouldn't be able to stand against him. He would crush the solemn cunt's head, just as he had done with the cocky Dornishman that had stood for Tyrion.

She slipped into her red dress, that had been strewn on the floor the night before. She then slipped out of the room, and headed to the White Sword Tower.

This had been a place where she could talk to Jaime alone, when Robert was still King. They had to wait for old Barristan Selmy and Arys Oakheart to be out, but then they could do whatever they want. Trant, Blount, Moore, and Greenfield knew to keep their mouths closed.

Jaime was gone, now, though, and it was for less passionate reasons that she headed to the tower.

She found Meryn Trant sat at the weirwood table, half asleep, where he should be fully awake. She knew that the Norcross boy was on guard outside Myrcella's chambers, now that he had recovered from the injury he had sustained in the tourney that had cost Tommen his life.

"Wake yourself, Trant."

She hissed the words in the man's ear, and he started awake. That was good. She wanted him scared, and there was a look of surprise and some fear in the man's eyes. He had been asleep on duty, after all.

"My- My Queen. What can help you with?"

She walked around the table, and ran her fingers along the weirwood surface, stopping at where the Lord Commander would sit, and remembering how Jaime had looked in his white Kingsguard armour. She had always preferred him to wear Lannister red and gold for her.

"I need to know the plans that the Dornish bastard girl has set for today's ceremonies. Which of you are going where?"

There was only Norcross, Trant, Blount, and Strong available in the city for today, as Swann and the Knight of Dying Flowers were both still away, and Osmund Kettleblack was in a cell, for participating in the brawl that had cost Tommen his life.

"The girl is going to have Blount and Strong posted on the doors of the Great Sept. I will be with Norcross at the foot of the dais."

"And who will be on the dais?"

Trant looked confused.

"All of the royal family and the current small council. Mace Tyrell has been asked to sit there, too, but the other Tyrells will be amongst the crowd."

Excellent. So the bastard had not gone as far to exclude her from the ceremony entirely. She would be on the dais, with the bastard girl and the others from Dorne that sat on the Small Council, now.

Paxter Redwyne had been replaced as Master of Ships by Valena Toland, and the new Master of Laws and Master of Whisperers were Ser Ryon Allyrion and Lord Tremond Gargalen. They were both Dornish puppets for Doran Martell, and just supported whatever the bastard girl proposed, or so Mathis told her.

When she left the White Sword Tower, she found that the courtyards of the Red Keep had started to become more hectic. There were servants rushing around trying to finish off the preparations for the final day. She saw Ser Creighton Longbough, who Myrcella had taken as a sworn shield, shouting at some of the men-at-arms. He would be organising the protection of Myrcella during the transport from the Red Keep to Baelor's Sept, Cersei presumed.

The man was an oaf, even more so than Mace Tyrell. He was large of belly, and ate too much at feasts. His beard was messy and untrimmed, and he had to squint more often than not. Cersei was unsure as to what Myrcella had seen in the man to name him to such a high ranked position. No doubt it had something to do with the bastard.

"My Lady."

She turned around, and found that it was Jalabhar Xho talking to her.

This one had been a friend to Robert, her ill-fated first husband, and had stayed around the castle ever since, reluctant to return home to the Summer Isles until some monarch pledged him men to help him retake his land.

"My Lord. What is it I can do for you today?"

He was no lord, but it was a courtesy that fell onto him. Cersei was no lady, either. She was a queen. Lord Rowan knew how to address her properly, but others in the Red Keep refused to do it just to spite her.

"Lady Nymeria Sand has requested your presence in the chambers of the Small Council, my lady. She says that it is urgent."

Cersei grimaced inside, but smiled politely at the man outwardly. She would happily cut his tongue from his throat, if she could, but not here and not now.

She wondered why Xho was out doing errands for the bastard girl. No doubt he was attracted to her, or something. Somebody had to be, although the bastard was nowhere near as fair as Cersei herself.

She found the small council chambers all but full when she arrived. Lord Gargalen was seated, with Ryon Allyrion pacing at the windows. Nymeria Sand was seated in the head chair, the chair that Cersei herself should be sat in. They were joined by the Tyrell maester, too. The one from the Arbor. There was no Mathis to be seen.

"I am glad you could join us, Lady Lannister. I trust you slept well enough?"

There was a knowing look in the eyes of the bastard, but Cersei stared her down well enough, and soon the girl looked away. Cersei's father had taught her how to do that.

"I asked you here to discuss the manner of your daughter's marriage to my cousin. She has asked to be dressed in the red of her mother's house, and not the gold of Baratheon. Would you know why this is the case?"

Cersei put on a smile.

"Myrcella always preferred the lion to the stag. She liked the pretty things in the Rock more than her father's tapestries of war. She is a Lannister more than a Baratheon."

"So I hear. I wonder how much Lannister the girl is. Still, she will be a Martell soon enough, and family. Then she will be protected as fiercely as one can be protected."

"What makes you think that I cannot protect my own daughter, bastard."

The bastard girl licked her lips at that, and grinned.

"The deaths of your two sons, my lady. You failed to protect either of them. I do not see why Myrcella should be any different. Rest assured that I shall look after her better than you looked after little Tommen."

Cersei could have gone for the bitch's throat after that. She didn't. She restrained herself, but still balled her hands into fists. Then she left the room, silently. Nymeria Sand would pay for her insults one day, but not today. Today was about Myrcella.

The royal procession was a slow one. The small council rode out of the Red Keep first, with the Martell boy and his entourage going next. He was joined by one of the Kingsguard, Ser Boros Blount, who, despite having been asleep all of last night, still looked ill.

Cersei left in a litter, although she had not been invited to leave with Myrcella, who was going with the bastard girl, she did have Qyburn join her inside, with the curtains closed, so that they could talk.

"She knows too much. How can you say that we should let her live? After taunting me about Joff and Tommen, too. She should burn, or be flayed, or some other horrendous death. Don't you still need women for your experiments?"

Qyburn had a kind smile on him, which was strange, as Cersei knew some of the things that he was capable of, and they were less than kind.

"I'm not saying that she mustn't die, but here and now is not the right time or place, my queen. Let the Martells have their moment, and begin to bring them down. They are complacent, and this Nymeria girl is no political powerhouse. Not like you. Bring her down like you did Margaery Tyrell."

"You think I should turn the Faith against her?"

Qyburn shrugged his shoulders at that.

"I think that you are taking sights at the wrong target. Your daughter pushes you away because she has chosen Trystane Martell, not Nymeria Sand. If you can convince her that he is not who she thinks, then she may come running back to you."

She nodded.

"Yes, yes. The boy is the problem, and when he is destroyed then I can take the bastard and tear her fingernails out, one by one."

Qyburn nodded at that, and Cersei started to imagine all of the horrible things that she would do to the bastard girl and the boy who dared to marry Myrcella without her blessing. She would make them bleed and make them suffer.

Just then the curtain of her litter was pulled open, and Cersei found herself confronted by the new High Septon, with Meryn Trant the man that had opened the curtain.

"The High Septon wishes to speak to you, my Queen."

Cersei grimaced on the inside. She hated this man. Maybe she should add him to the list of people that she would make suffer and die. She could just imagine removing the smug grin from his face by pulling out his teeth one by one. Would his faith come and save him then, she wondered. Would he still be able to see the light in the darkness of his prison cell?

"Would you walk with me, my Lady?"

Cersei reluctantly left the litter and Qyburn, and followed the old man whom she so hated. Crowds of the common folk had gathered outside the Great Sept, and it was the men of the City Watch, as well as the Faith Militant, that kept them in line and away from the highborns.

Cersei spotted some familiar faces as she travelled through the crowd. The fat oaf of Tyrell had travelled with his vapid wife and bitch of a daughter. The girl looked sad, as news of her brother's death had just come through the previous day. She had even had the nerve to come to Myrcella's marriage wearing a black dress.

"I was sorry to hear that Ser Loras had died, weren't you? He was too young. That is what happens in war, though. Boys die. Girls die. My father died during a war, and I was left alone. It wasn't long until I started to sin, and that brought me to the edge. I did my redemption by walking the roads of the West. Maybe you should consider something similar."

Cersei was taken aback by the brazenness of the comment. Who did this priest think he was to talk to her like that? He was nothing, and she was the mother of the queen. She could have him killed easily enough, if she wanted to.

"It is the West that I wanted to discuss with you, my lady. I would like to send Septons Luceon and Raynard of the Most Devout with you, to oversee the construction of a great sept in Lannisport that our queen has requested be built using the funds of the Rock. Would this be acceptable with you?"

Cersei didn't care about the two septons. One of them was a whoremonging lickspittle, and the other was a Frey fool. Both had been contenders for the position of High Septon. She suspected that the old man wanted them gone so he could consolidate his power.

The two of them passed Lancel as they entered the Great Sept, and Cersei flashed a look at her cousin.

Even now he was gaunt, and he had never truly recovered from the wounds that he had picked up on the Blackwater. She couldn't believe that she had ever considered the boy a replacement for Jaime. He was nothing compared to her brother. He was a cheap mirror image.

She found that the Small Council had already gathered on the high dais, and she joined them, taking the seat besides Mathis Rowan.

She noticed that the rest of the Small Council were wearing orange and reds, no doubt to signify their loyalty to Doran Martell, who called himself Lord Regent, but only in name. She also noticed that Nymeria Sand was absent.

It was Trystane Martell that her eyes therefore turned to. He was stood higher up than them, dressed in a smart jerkin of orange and red, wearing an orange cloak, that was clasped together by the spear of Nymeria, the warrior woman that the Dornish worshipped. Some old bitch that fucked a man, just like every other powerful woman ever.

The boy was cute, but not handsome. He wasn't strong like Robert had been. He was short and gaunt, with straight, black hair, and olive skin, the same as every other boy from the Dornish coast. There was nothing about him that suggested he was a prince. He looked just like a hundred other boys that were used for pleasure in Dornish brothels.

Just then the doors of the Great Sept opened, and Myrcella entered, with Meryn Trant and Bayard Norcross behind her, and the bastard girl alongside her. She looked beautiful.

Cersei had been older than Myrcella was now when she had married Robert, and Myrcella still looked like a child. Her chest was flat, and her eyes innocent. There was a scar where a Dornish rogue had attacked her, but she had covered it up with her golden hair. Cersei almost felt some pride pass through her as she saw her daughter walk up the aisle, but then she remembered that she was aiding their enemies, and that she had pushed her own mother away.

The ceremony was, thankfully, short, and the High Septon didn't say much. He talked of how it was good to see that love could still shine through in these dark days, and that it would be through embracing the pillars of the faith that they would overcome the darkness that covered the city.

Then Trystane put the Martell cloak around Myrcella, and they were done. Her daughter was the queen, and she had found her king, a soppy Dornish boy.

Trystane came to her afterwards, and kissed her hand, as he had, no doubt, been told to do by whoever advised him ahead of public appearances.

"It is a pleasure to finally meet you properly, my Lady. My bride told me of her mother's beauty, and I did not believe it. I see where she got it from."

Maybe Myrcella had gone out of her way to fall for a boy that was the exact opposite of Robert. Trystane was eloquent and charming in a way that Robert had never been. She almost forgot that he was her enemy, and that he was stealing her daughter from her.

She stalked out of the sept then, and looked out at the crowds that had gathered. They celebrated the wedding of her daughter. They encouraged the Dornish stranglehold on power. They had to die.


	48. Asha III

Asha Greyjoy looked at the wooden bridge that had replaced the one that had claimed the life of her father.

It swung in a light breeze, as if mocking her, knowing the cruel trick that it's predecessor had played. She had thought it had been her uncle, Euron Crow's Eye, that had thrown her father from the bridge, but now she was unsure. Could it have been another?

Balon Greyjoy had loved the Iron Islands, and loved the crown and his seastone chair. He had never loved his children, though. Not after Rodrik and Maron, at least. He had wanted Asha to be his heir, but he had never loved her like he had Rodrik. He would never have grown to love her.

And yet she missed him. She wished that he was still here, so that she wouldn't have lost her mother, or seen Euron crowned king, or been captured by Stannis Baratheon. Those had been all caused by Balon Greyjoy falling from a bridge.

She heard a cough then, and turned to find the maester of Pyke stood just out of sight.

Wendamyr was a youngish man, no more than thirty years, but still his hair was greying in places. He was thin, too, unlike most of the men of the Iron Islands, who all tried to outmuscle each other. He had been born and raised on Pyke, or so he claimed.

Her father had never liked him.

"Lords Farwynd and Sparr are ready to talk with you in your solar, my lady."

Asha scoffed at that.

"Call Sparr what he is. He is no more than a boy, maester, and no lord at that. The true Lord Sparr is not here to treat with me, for he does not wish to accept my proposal. Say what you will for the Farwynds, at least they show loyalty."

The maester nodded at that, but Asha was unsure whether he was giving any thoughts on the matter, or just accepting that she herself had an opinion.

She had been having the same problem with the majority of the men that she had taken over in the last few days. She had sent home most of Ironmaker's garrison, and replaced them with men from Lordsport, but still she felt they doubted every decision that she made, even if they would never say so for fear of ending up like old, fat Erik.

She stalked through the halls of the castle that she still felt was barely hers. Everywhere she looked were reminders of Balon, or Victarion, Aeron, or even Euron. Not much here reminded her of Theon, but still, she thought of him every day. She felt like she missed him, but she wasn't sure. She had never really known her brother.

She did indeed find Triston Farwynd waiting in her solar, joined by Steffarion Sparr, the son and heir of The Sparr of Great Wyk. He was the man that his father had chosen to send. The two men rose from their seats for her entrance.

"Sit, my lords. We are all Ironborn here. I am as much a warrior as either of you, and do not ask you submit to me in the same ways as the Greenlanders."

Triston inclined his head and sat, but Steffarion was unsure.

Asha looked him up and down. The boy was not unattractive, but he was not strong. She didn't mind her men weaker, though. After all, she liked Tris-

No, she thought to herself. She couldn't think about Tristifer Botley. She couldn't think about the way he made her feel, or about how he had saved her life during her taking of her home. She couldn't think about him. That was why she had sent him away to Lordsport.

"I have called both of you here as I want your support. Great Wyk is the largest of the Iron Islands, and you are the representatives of the second and third biggest houses on the island. I ask your support in taming it."

Triston nodded, but Steffarion looked unsure.

"The Sparrs are sworn to the Goodbrothers by an ancient oath, my lady. I do not think it is my place to break that."

"I agree. That's why I asked your father here and not you. Your father put the burden of choice on you, however. You do as he would will."

Steffarion looked offended at first, but then retreated that position, likely knowing full well that what she said was the truth. He was no lord, and he was in no position to make this decision for his family, and yet make this decision he had to do.

"What would you have me and my father do, and what would be the reward?"

Asha smiled. At least the boy was clever enough to listen.

"The Hammerhorn is the stronghold of House Goodbrother. That will be where the Sparr forces strike, whilst the Farwynds target the seats of Corpse Lake and Crow Spike Keep, and the Merlyns attack Downdelving. That way we will take out all sources of Goodbrother power on Great Wyk in one go."

Triston nodded at that plan, but Steffarion looked uncertain. She understood that. The Hammerhorn was a strong castle, and stood far from the sea. It would not be easy to take.

"In reward, House Sparr shall be granted the Hammerhorn, and all the wealth that comes with it. Corpse Lake and Crow Spike Keep shall both be given to the younger sons of Lord Gylbert Farwynd, your cousin, I believe, Lord Triston."

"Aye, that he is. That would give my house control over the northern half of Great Wyk, and the Sparrs control over the middle. Would we still be sworn to Hammerhorn?"

She shook her head.

"No. You would control your portions of the island, and be sworn to me directly. I think that is more than fair compensation, in return for your support."

Triston nodded, and rose from his seat again.

"The ships and sails of the Farwynds stand with you, my lady."

Steffarion took a few more seconds before standing. He placed his hand on the sword that he wore at his belt.

"As are the shields and swords of the Sparrs. Great Wyk shall be yours, Lady Greyjoy."

The two left her then, with Triston going to marshal his men and ready them to set sail, and with Steffarion going with Wendamyr to send a raven to his father and younger brothers, announcing that the Sparrs were to revolt against the Goodbrothers.

Asha seated herself down, and poured herself a glass of the Arbor gold wine that her father had kept in the basement of Pyke. It had been taken on a raid many years ago, so he said, but Asha suspected that Balon Greyjoy, who thought himself the last great supporter of the Old Way, had bought it from a Lordsport merchant.

Then a knock came at the door, and in stepped Grimtongue, followed by Sigfryd Harlaw, the elderly master of Harlaw Hall.

Sigfryd had been taken prisoner by her uncle's men after her other nuncle, Rodrik Harlaw, sailed south. She had freed him when she had taken the castle, and sent him back to Harlaw, to bring news of her victory to the lords that opted to support her.

Clearly, he had returned.

"Leave us, Grimtongue. I will talk with Master Sigfryd alone."

Grimtongue did just that, and Asha poured Sigfryd a glass of arbor gold for himself, which he took without saying anything.

He was an old man, and had seen more Lords of Pyke pass than Asha could think. He had lived through her grandfather's reign, and then her father's, followed by Euron, Victarion, and now her. His beard ran long, and he carried no weapon, save for a dirk that he wore at his hip.

"What news do you bring from the greatest of the Iron Islands?"

"The lords there are content to follow you, my lady, but most are only castellans, serving in the place of lords and sons who have travelled south with your uncle. I would not say your hold on the island is stable."

Asha knew that to be true. She had the support of the castellans left by Maron Volmark and Harras Harlaw, but they might switch sides when their respective masters came home.

She would have been able to count on Harras, she thought, but the Crow's Eye had given him a southern lordship, and his pick of any woman from the Reach. That would test a man's loyalty, even if Harras would usually follow whatever Rodrik, his liege lord, told him to do.

"Yet it is my most powerful stronghold save for Pyke. Hopefully soon I shall have Great Wyk, and then I can turn my attention to Saltcliffe and Orkmont. I need the support of the lords of Harlaw, though."

"Maybe if you wrote to Lord Rodrik in the south-"

Asha interrupted the old man then.

"I do not know where he is, and even if I did, the Crow's Eye might read it first. I don't want to draw his attention north to us, whilst I am still consolidating my power. No, we will have to promise these castellans rewards for serving us. Give them lordships in place of rebels like the Wynches and the Drumms."

"A good incentive, my lady."

She sighed. She was hoping that the Silverhair might give her some more to work with. The man had the experience. He should have some advice for her, but it turned out that he was just another person who would agree with all that she said.

This was something that she had discovered ever since she had become Lady of Pyke. Most of the men that she had brought with her were people she thought she could trust to give counsel. She had been wrong. Most of them just said yes to the first idea she put forward, without giving it proper consideration.

Or there were those who were the exact opposite, like Clayton Suggs.

Clayton was a knight that Stannis had sent with her, and he hated the fact that he had to answer to a woman. She half expected him to hit her every time she spoke with him, though it seemed he had more sense than to do that. She disliked the man strongly, and had found herself hoping that he would do something for which she could have him executed, just to rid her of his presence.

She let Sigfryd leave then, and walked to the door, closing it behind the old man as he left. She needed some time to be alone and think.

She knew that she had said that she shouldn't, but she started to think of Tris and of how his efforts to organise the ships in the Lordsport docks would be going. He should be here, with her, not down there, but he distracted her. She couldn't have that. Not now.

Even when he was away, though, she couldn't stop thinking of him, and the way that he had saved her life, or the way that he had looked when she caught him bathing. It had reminded her of the things that they had done as children, and oddly missing them.

It had been her father that had prohibited her from marrying Tris. He was dead now, so why couldn't she do it, if that was what she wanted? She wasn't sure. She liked him, and felt something inside her leap when she saw him, but that wasn't a feeling she could have. She couldn't love anything but her knives and axes. That was the life path that she had chosen.

Then there was Qarl.

She didn't love him, but he was just one of many men that she had taken into her bed since those innocent days with Tris. Surely it would bother him to find out that she hadn't waited for him, as he had for her. Did he already know? Were tales of her lust spoken of across the Iron Islands?

Why were men so confusing? She was a warrior, who could kill a man at thirty paces, so why couldn't she work out how she felt about them? Did she love Tris? If so, she couldn't enact on those feelings. He wouldn't understand that, of course, hence why she had sent him away.

There was a knock on the door then, and maester Wendamyr let himself in. He had a scroll of parchment in his hand as he did. He handed it to her, and waited.

"Who is this from?"

"Your uncle, my lady. Lord Rodrik, not Euron."

She eagerly unwrapped the letter, anxious to see what news her beloved nuncle Rodrik was sending her. Was the Crow's Eye heading north?

"He says that Oldtown has been attacked and sacked, and that many houses have taken many riches from the High Tower and the Citadel. He also says the Crow's Eye plans to return to the Arbor and plan from there."

"Would you like me to send a response, my lady?"

Asha shook her head, and threw the piece of paper from her uncle on the fire, and watched as it burned. She heard the door close as the Maester left again.

She then had a sudden urge to talk with another of her nuncles, and got up. She had arrested Aeron for the murder of her father, and had yet to talk to the priest. She found him difficult to converse with. He spoke of the Drowned God too much, but now she did. She wanted to hear what he had to say.

The dungeons of Pyke were wet and smelly. They had always contained the drunken guards that her father had disapproved of. When she had arrived back home, she had found all of Euron's prisoners here. They had suffered.

Now Aeron was the only prisoner.

Her nuncle looked weak in his wet robes, with his hair tangled and matted. He was pale, too, although he had been fed and watered three times a day. She hadn't had him tortured, out of respect for her father and the name that they shared. Maybe he was weak from being away from his god for too long.

He rose the moment that he saw her, and came to the bars of the cell, wrapping his fingers around them as she came closer.

"Asha… Asha… You have to believe that I didn't do it… The Drowned God would never forgive me for slaying my own kin… My own brother… I'm innocent…"

"So you claim, nuncle, but Maester Wendamyr says that you were here on the night that my father went missing. You claim that you were on Great Wyk. Which person should I believe? He has no reason to lie."

Her nuncle looked desparate. His eyes didn't look like the eyes of a man that was guilty, but, then again, there was nothing to suggest he didn't do it. Had he loved his brother, her father, or had he resented Balon for sitting on the Seastone Chair when he thought himself the most godly?

"He lies, Asha… I was serving my god on Great Wyk… My Drowned Men can vouch for me… They know the truth… They know…"

Her nuncle's voice was rasping, and she could tell that every word that he spoke caused him pain, but it was pain that he deserved if he had killed her father. There was no man more cursed than the kinslayer. That was what her father had told her.

"Your Drowned Men who worship you as if you were there god? Forgive me if I do not take their word as the truth. Besides, most of them have gone missing since the Kingsmoot. The Crow's Eye saw to that, I suspect."

Aeron let out a wail as he heard that. It cut her deep. It was that which first made her think that maybe the Damphair was being honest.

"I have seen fit to allow you a trip to talk with your beloved god, Damphair. Cleftjaw will take you to the sea near Lordsport, with twenty of his finest men. You had best not try to make an escape, as this is a generous gesture from me. When you return, I want to hear the truth."

She left him then, and walked to the Seastone chair. She ran her hand along it's form, and thought of all that her father had taught her about ruling. He had been a brave man, and a strong fighter and a good captain, but he had not been clever, and he had been too stubborn. There were plenty of reasons for people to want him dead, but did Aeron really have one?

Maybe he had been jealous of Balon. Maybe he had wanted the Seastone chair, and thought maybe that he would make a more godly king. That made no sense, though. Aeron hadn't put his name forward at the Kingsmoot, and surely he wouldn't have killed her father so that Victarion could take the throne.

No. The Crow's Eye killed Balon. That was the only answer. He killed Balon so that he could take the throne. That made perfect sense. Aeron was innocent.


	49. The Dornish Princess

The journey to Griffin's Roost had been a long and hard one, though It had also been decidedly uneventful, and Arianne Martell had been hoping for a little more excitement on her first official trip out of Dorne as a representative of her father. They had encountered no bad weather, and no bandits, despite the extensive armed retinue that her father had sent along for the ride. She had not needed this, and it would have been, in many ways, better to send just her and one knight, so as they could travel quickly and quietly, and not had to stop off at so many castles.

They had travelled through the sands of Dorne first, off to Ghost Hill, where they had then caught a ship to the port near to Wyl, bypassing the grim island of Ghaston Grey, before they then began their journey through the Stormlands.

It had been exhausting, and the change from sand to mountains had been strange. She didn't like the steep hills and the foggy weather. She missed the heat of home, as well as the sounds and smells of Plankytown, or watching Areo Hotah and cousin Manfrey practicing their fighting in the courtyard of Sunspear.

She even missed her father and his cryptic messages. She had thought him a weak fool before, but now she thought that maybe he did have a plan. Maybe he was seeking to avenge Elia and Oberyn. Fire and blood had been what he promised Oberyn's daughters, at any rate.

As Arianne thought of Oberyn, she turned her head to the right and looked at one of her companions, Elia Sand.

She looked more like Oberyn than Lady Nym or Tyene. They all had his eyes, though, and Elia had some of her mother in her, too. She called herself Lady Lance, and the sight of her jousting with established tourney knights was truly breathtaking. She used her small frame to get the better of them, and could often send them flying with one blow.

One man she could never best, however, was Ser Daemon Sand, Arianne's sworn shield and protector.

The Bastard of Godsgrace, as he was called when out of earshot, had grown sullen and quiet since they had stopped their couplings many years ago. He tended to now use one word answers whenever she did try and make conversation with him, and other than that just didn't talk with anyone.

He had always been handsome, and Arianne missed the dimples that appeared on his cheeks when he smiled. She had used to kiss them, when they had been together behind her father's back. They had both been so young then.

She had not had cause to see those dimples much on their travels so far.

He carried the sun and spear of Martell as they made their approach. He was the natural choice to serve as their flagbearer. He was the most prominent knight that her father had sent with them, and was the only one from a highborn family, even if he was baseborn.

She saw the three headed dragon of House Targaryen flying above the castle that stood before them. Below that was the griffins of House Connington, who Griffin's Roost belonged to, and then the golden flag of the sellsword group called the Golden Company, who had taken up the banner of the boy who called himself Aegon Targaryen.

She didn't notice much of a military presence here, considering this humble castle was the dwelling of a king. Maybe the rest of his force was fighting for more castles in this region, to cement his control over the area. That was what she would have done, had she been in the place of the foreign claimant.

The gates of Griffin's Roost opened before them, as they approached. They had been expecting the party from Dorne.

They were greeted on the other side by an ugly man, who looked more corpse than living. His skin was papery, with red veins standing against his pallid complexion. He wore a ragged cloak, that bore an image of a black goat upon the chest. Could he be Qohorik?

He spoke the common tongue, however.

"Welcome to Griffin's Roost, Lady Martell. May I escort you to your chambers?"

The words felt forced, as if talking in this polite and civilised manner didn't suit the man. Daemon rode forward then, and put himself in between the two of them.

"This is the man that this king sends to welcome us? We will see him before we get shoved to the side, goblin. Take us before him."

She liked to see the forceful side of Daemon, but she tried not to think of him using that forceful tone on her in bed. He was her knight in shining armour. He was there to protect her and stand up for her against people like this man.

"The king ain't here for you to see. He's already left for and taken Storm's End, and now plans his attack on King's Landing. I could take you before his official castellan of the castle, if that pleases you."

Daemon looked at Arianne, and their eyes met, but then he almost instantly looked away. She turned to the man and nodded gently, and he turned away and started walking to the inner keep of the castle.

She dismounted her horse, with help from Elia, and then proceeded to follow him, with Daemon, Elia, and two of the others that her father had sent with her, Ser Joss Hood and Ser Garibald Shells, both of them lowborn knights in her father's service.

They flanked her as they entered, with Daemon walking ahead of her, and Elia behind. The Great Hall of Griffin's Roost wasn't a large one, with small glass windows overlooking the drop at the back. Connington banners hung from the walls, interchanged with the black and red of House Targaryen. The high seat was simple and basic, made of wood, with no additional frills.

Sat on it was a man who suited the chair.

He wore grey robes, and had grey eyes and has grey hair, which he wore pulled into a knot behind his head. He cocked his head when he saw her, and a smile crossed onto his face, as if there was some inner joke that only he was aware of.

Stood beside him was a woman. She was fair, but old. Her age had not ruined her looks. Her hair was flowing and brown, and her eyes were a mystifying light blue. She could tell that Joss and Garibald were staring at her.

It was the man that talked, however.

"Princess Arianne! We expected you sooner. I trust that your journey has not been hampered by bandits?"

"Our journey has been fine, my lord. May I ask where Aegon Targaryen is?"

"You may. King Aegon has taken the castle of Storm's End, and now rules from there. He plans his attack on King's Landing, where your brother is wedding the new queen."

Arianne was surprised. At first she thought that this man meant Quentyn, but then she realised that he must be talking about Trystane marrying Myrcella. Did he call her queen? Did that mean the boy king was dead?

"House Martell has clearly found new allies in the Baratheons, and has chosen to pass over the vows that you swore to the Targaryens. Maybe it will be Sunspear that my King takes next."

"Ask the last Aegon Targaryen who thought the Dornish would roll over for him how that went, my lord. I am not here to bend the knee on behalf of my father, but to see whether your king is someone that Dorne could consider supporting. As he is absent, I have seen very little to suggest that he is anything that he claims to be."

The man rose from his seat, and walked down towards her.

"I am no lord, Princess. My name is Haldon, who they call the Halfmaester. I have known Aegon for many years, and there is no man more suitable to sit the Iron Throne. He is your cousin, is he not?"

"I don't know. Is he?"

The two of them stared each other down, and eventually it was Haldon that backed down. He turned around, and stalked back to his seat.

"Elia of Dorne, your aunt, was wedded to Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, the last dragon. Your father, and, in turn, you, should honour that pact and support the child of the union. Prince Lewyn Martell fought for Rhaegar-"

"And my great-uncle died for him. Rhaegar dishonoured my aunt by capturing and raping Lyanna Stark to death. What does Dorne owe the offspring of the last dragon's seed? We have already lost plenty for Rhaegar Targaryen. Why should we lose more for his son?"

The room was silent, and Arianne realised that nobody besides her and Haldon had spoken for some time. She turned to look to Daemon, who instead stared straight on, ignoring her silent plea for him to come to her aid, as he had earlier.

"What does Dorne owe House Baratheon? Lest you forget that it was Baratheon allies that killed Prince Lewyn, and Baratheon allies that murdered Elia in cold blood? Aegon fights for justice for his mother and the rest of his kin who suffered under Robert Baratheon-"

"Ser Gregor Clegane, the man who killed my aunt, is dead. Tywin Lannister is dead. Robert Baratheon is dead. Lyn Corbray is dead. I hold no grudge with Myrcella Baratheon, nor does my father. Why should we support Aegon over her?"

"She is the child of incest-"

"So was your beloved Rhaegar Targaryen."

That caused more silence, and even the Halfmaester was left stunned and lost for words. Arianne cocked her head, and stared at him.

"You have been left to persuade me to bring Dorne to your cause, yes? Why did your master not leave someone with more experience in politics, my lord? Should I be insulted that I am left with a failed maester negotiating with me?"

"I am a trusted advisor to my king-"

"And yet you are here, and not with him in Storm's End. How much does he trust you then? How important are you to his cause that he doesn't bother to bring you with him when he moves castles?"

She could see Haldon quivering slightly, which caused her to smile slightly.

"Never mind, my lord. We will ride for Storm's End on the morn of tomorrow. I trust you have rooms that me and my companions may use tonight?"

He nodded, and turned to the woman, who silently swept from the room. Arianne guessed that she was meant to follow her, and so she did.

Griffin's Roost was a modest castle, full of narrow corridors, and the rooms that they were given were small. Arianne had a room to herself, whilst her knights were put in the one on the left of her, and Elia was put in the room to her right.

She had a tub of warm water brought up to her from the kitchens, and slipped out of her riding clothes, and then slipped herself into the water. It felt so good against the sore parts of her body. It felt like they had been riding for ages, even if it had only been a month or two.

She ran her hands down her body, as if trying to wipe away the sweat and the dirt. As she did, she thought of Daemon, and how he had touched her when they had been younger. She thought of what could happen if he entered her chambers now. Would he take her there and then?

She slipped her fingers inside herself at the thought, and started to stimulate herself to the thought of her sworn shield. She closed her eyes, so as to imagine his chiselled body even better. She kept them closed after she climaxed, and when she opened them she found Elia stood in her room, staring at her.

"Arri… I couldn't sleep… I miss Dorne."

Arianne got out of the bath, and pulled on a simple gown. She then walked over to her cousin, and took her hand, sitting her down on the edge of her bed.

"I miss Dorne, too. I don't like these mountains, but we have to put up with them just a bit longer. Do you think you can do that for me?"

Elia nodded slightly, but she still looked nervous.

"Would you like to sleep in here with me, instead of through there in your room?"

Elia nodded again, and then leaned in and kissed Arianne on the lips. It was a strange moment. Arianne had not expected it, and the girl was much younger than she was. Then Elia pulled away, and looked down at the floor, a blush appearing on her olive cheeks.

The kiss hadn't been a bad one. She had kept her tongue to herself, and it hadn't been as messy as some of the kisses that Arianne had shared with Daemon when they had been younger. She wondered if it had been Elia's first.

"Sorry, Arri. I- I just- Tyene told me-"

Arianne pulled Elia into a hug, and rubbed her on the back.

"I understand, El. Is there something else on your mind? Is that what this is all about? You can tell me."

Elia shook her head, but then started talking almost straight away.

"Mother says that I should be looking for a husband soon. She says that it would be what my father would want, to find a Dornish husband who can help me experience things. I don't think I want that."

"Why not, El?"

Elia was clutching her hands so tight that they started to go white.

"I don't think I ever want to have sex with a man, Arri. I know that is what I am supposed to want, but I just don't want to. I don't know what to do. That's why I asked to come with you. You always do what you want, like Ty and Nym. I want to be more like that."

Arianne cradled her little cousin until she had gone to sleep, whispering reassuring things into her ear. She understood what Elia was going through, even if it wasn't exactly the same for her. She laid her down on the bed, and then laid down next to her, before drifting off into a fitful sleep.

It was morning soon enough, and one of the serving maids of Griffin's Roost was sent to wake her. The sun came through the small window in her room in bright rays. She pulled on the accursed riding clothes again, and went through to see Elia, to talk about what they had discussed the night before, but found that she had left.

She found her, as well as Daemon and Garibald, in the stables, checking up on the horses and making sure they had been fed the night before.

They were mounted soon enough, with Elia leading their descent from the castle. Arianne turned and looked back up at it. They were joined by two men that Haldon had sent with them to navigate them towards Storm's End, as only Daemon had ever visited the castle.

They rode for a few hours before Elia pulled in alongside Arianne. Daemon was riding behind them, with Joss, Garibald and the two Targaryen men were in front.

"I wanted to apologise again, Arri. I didn't mean to kiss you last night. It's just- Tyene told me that you were good at it, and I wanted to see whether I liked it more when I did it with girls than when I've done it with boys."

Arianne smiled at that.

"Did you?"

Elia blushed, and didn't respond for a few seconds.

"Yes."

"Good. Then when we get back to Dorne I'm going to introduce you to a girl I know. She knows how to make you feel amazing things that no man can ever do."

Just as she finished saying that, she saw the flash of something flying through the air, and one of the Targaryen men fell from his horse, clutching at his throat.

Joss and Garibald went for their swords, but Joss was the next to fall, as an arrow hit him through one of his eyes. Three men then charged round the corner of the path and set themselves on Garibald and the other Targaryen man. One of their attackers wore shiny silver plate armour. He was no common bandit.

Garibald didn't last long, and was stabbed through the back by one of his attackers, as he tried to square up with the knight. The Targaryen man didn't last very long either. Their attackers then stepped forward, and surrounded Arianne and Elia.

"Well, well. What are two beautiful Dornish girls doing wandering around these parts?"

The one in the shiny armour was the same one that spoke, and as he did he removed his helm. He had a mane of long red hair, with a mighty red beard.

"Don't worry, Lady Martell. I know who you are. I'm here to protect you now. You are coming with me to King's Landing, so as I can prove the treachery of Dorne to the entire Seven Kingdoms, and redeem my family in the eyes of the crown."

She tried to stay strong and sit high, but this man scared her.

"And who would you be, ser?"

"Ser Ronnet Connington. The lawful Knight of Griffin's Roost."


	50. Bran III

"We have to go!"

Bran Stark woke from his sleep, and screamed out the message. They had to run. They had to run as far as they could.

They had to cross the seas and flee. What was coming for them was an eternal evil that could never be beaten. It was something that no king or knight could ever defeat. It was darkness and winter all rolled into one, all encompassing army, that would march until all of them were dead and with them.

He had seen the eyes of their leader. He had been watching him from a throne of ice. He had been beautiful, and yet monstrous at the same time. He had known that he was there. He had seen him. How had he seen him? What was this darkness that they were fighting.

It seemed like an eternity before someone appeared in his line of sight. Didn't they understand? Didn't they realise that this place wasn't safe anymore? They had to run!

"Today is not the day that you die."

He looked up, and there was Jojen, looking down at him, a sad look in his eyes. He couldn't be here. Jojen was dead. It had been him that had sent him to see the true enemy. He was dead.

"I'm with you, Brandon. Always with you."

Then Jojen was gone, and replaced by his sister, Meera.

Her hair was longer than it had been last time he had laid his eyes upon her. How long had he been asleep? Days? Weeks? She was pale, too, and it looked like she had been crying recently. Her cheeks were red, and they were still wet in places. He wanted to console her, and to tell her that it would be alright, but that was a lie, and this wasn't the time or the place.

"Bran? You're awake?"

"I am, Meera. We have to go. He is coming. He saw me. He knows where we are. He wants me, and he won't spare you or anyone if he gets me. We have to go."

Meera looked confused.

"Who is he, Bran? Who do you mean? You aren't making sense."

"The dead. The person who leads them. He's an Other, Meera, like the ones from the stories that we were told as children. They are real. It was all real. Winter is Coming, and they are coming with it. We have to go."

Another face appeared in his sight then. It was the nut-brown skinned Child of the Forest. The one with the golden eyes and the woman's voice.

"He has seen. He has not seen everything, though. You have to watch further, Brandon Stark. You have to see the truth. See it, and then we will leave."

"We don't have time! We have to go! Why don't you understand? We're all going to die if we stay here!"

He then saw Jojen stood in the corner. He shook his head gently, and then they were all gone, and instead he was stood in the Godswood of Winterfell. The trees rustled in a cold winter wind, and the weirwood looked out at him. He walked forward, and found snow underneath his feet. There were two people stood in front of him.

"I love him, Benjen."

He had seen these two in his visions before. The woman was his aunt, Lyanna Stark, and the man was a younger version of the uncle he had known, Benjen. Lyanna looked similar here to how she had when he had seen her at the Tower of Joy. This must be taking place just before she ran off with Arthur Dayne.

"I do not doubt it, Ly. I just want to know whether he really loves you. He is a man, and you know how men can be-"

"Not all men are like Brandon, Benjen. Arthur is different. He is no Robert Baratheon. He has honour like father. He is a good man."

"He breaks his vows for you. Where is the honour in that?"

Lyanna looked away, and Bran felt like her eyes met his for just a second.

"Where is the honour found in an archaic order that does not allow it's members to feel love, Benjen. Arthur loves me, and he should be able to show it. We are going away together. We are going to be wed. I want you to be there. You would be there if you loved me."

Benjen stared at Lyanna for a few seconds, before then walking away, without saying a word. Bran heard Lyanna start to sob as the scene changed.

Now he was watching two men, stood together in a large tent. One of the men was small of stature, and had the green eyes of the crannogmen. The other was long of face, with brown hair, and wore a cloak of brown. This was Howland Reed and Bran's own father, Eddard Stark.

"You love her, Reed?"

"I do, Stark."

Bran's father turned away from his friend, and sat on one of the beds. He put his head in his hands, and then looked back up at Howland, who stood as tall as he could.

"And she loves you?"

"Aye. I think she does."

"Then of course you have my blessing, friend. Marry her and take her back to Greywater Watch. I have no objections."

Howland went down on one knee before Stark.

"I thank you, my friend. I shall love and care for her until the end of my days."

Ned let out a weak smile.

"Rise, Lord Reed. I am the younger son of the Lord of Winterfell. You need not bend the knee before me."

"I know, my friend. I am pledging my loyalty to you. I shall always be there whenever you need me most. That is my word, and my word is binding."

"I shall make sure to remember that, Lord Reed. Now go, I have things to think on."

Howland left Ned then, who laid down on the bed. Bran looked down at the face of his father. Even now, he couldn't help but feel a twinge whenever he saw him. He couldn't help but miss him, and wish that he hadn't been taken away. Maybe then they'd stand a chance against what was coming.

"What do you want me to see? What is it? We should be running, not focussing on things we already know!"

"You aren't thinking, Brandon."

He turned, and found Jojen stood behind him. His green eyes were piercing into him.

"You have to connect what you know. Lyanna and Arthur were wedded, which means any children of their union wouldn't be baseborn. My father was asking for permission from yours to follow a woman. They shared a bond. They both loved the same person. Who?"

"Your mother's name is Jyana Reed-"

"Or so my father says, Brandon. He lies. He lied about what happened at the Tower of Joy to protect someone. Why would he protect Arthur Dayne? What reason did he have for doing that?"

Brandon tried to think at that. What connection did Howland Reed have with Arthur Dayne? There was nothing. He couldn't think.

Then a thought struck him. Who had his father loved besides his mother. He had heard many rumours of who Jon's mother had been, but one of the names stuck out over all the others.

"Ashara Dayne. Howland was in love with Ashara Dayne. She is your mother. That is how father knew where to look for Ashara. That is why he spared Arthur Dayne's life."

Jojen smiled, and nodded, but then he was gone.

He now saw Howland Reed and Eddard Stark again. They were older now, hardened by war and the horrors of the battlefield. Willam Dustin stood with them, and Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, knelt on the floor. The dead bodies of their companions lay strewn across the floor.

"Keep them safe…"

His father grabbed Dayne at the throat, and lifted him to his feet, pushing him against the wall of the tower.

"Keep who safe? Tell me! Who else is in that Tower!"

Then they were interrupted by the sound of a crying baby, and all four men looked towards the tower.

Then they were gone, and Brandon was stood at the foot of a mighty wall of ice. The Wall.

There was a body on the floor. It was Jon. Blood poured out of many wounds, and he whispered for his direwolf. Then he was cold. Then he was gone. Bran sobbed. He had watched it happen, of course, but he had never stayed until the end. He hated to see his bastard brother like this.

Then somebody stood by the body. It wasn't somebody that Sam recognised. They wore a cloak of white wolfskin, and a hood that hid their face from view. They grabbed Jon by the foot, and started to drag him through the snow, towards the great gates of Castle Black that separated the south of the wall from the north. He couldn't make out who it was, or whether he recognised them, but soon they, and Jon, had vanished into the darkness, and the wind whipped snowflakes into his face.

Then he was awake again.

The Child of the Forest, the one that they called Leaf, was still in his view. He could hear Meera, but couldn't see her.

"Hodor."

He looked up to see that Hodor had just entered the room. He knew that the giant man would help him escape, because Bran could leave him with no choice but to. He had to run. They had to go or they would all die.

He tried to slip into the mind of the gentle giant, as he had done so many times before. It had got to the point where Hodor just didn't bother to try and fight back now. He just accepted what had to happen, and the part of him that had fought just went to the corner of his mind so as to not bother Brandon.

He tried to slip in, but he couldn't. There was something blocking him. It was as if someone was already in Hodor's mind.

It was then that Bran felt the large hands take him by the neck and start to apply pressure. He couldn't breathe. He was struggling against it. He was fighting his friend, but it was a mismatch. Hodor didn't know his strength, but whoever was controlling him did.

Bran thrashed on the floor, and felt the Meera trying to tear Hodor off of him. His eyes started to flutter, as he called out for the air that he so despearatley needed, but it wouldn't come!

Then the giant's grip tightened, and he fell away, a knife of obsidian buried in the back of his neck. It was Leaf that stood behind him, a look of shock on her face. Hodor lay dead next to Bran, finally at peace.

"We have to go!"

Meera grabbed hold of Bran, and pulled him over her shoulders, but he was too heavy for her to carry for long, and she was not tall enough to stop his legs from dragging along the ground.

Leaf ran past them, and talked to one of the other Children in their strange language that Bran didn't understand. That child ran off, and then seven other children came out from the darkness. They all carried weapons with dark black stones, sharpened to a point.

"What are we waiting for? We have to go!"

"You won't make it out without help, Brandon Stark. You need help. The magic is down. They are coming, but that means that he can enter."

"Who? Who can enter? Who are you talking about?"

The other child ran down into the cavern then, and was followed by the ranger in the cold. He wore the blacks and greys of the Night's Watch, and his face was concealed. All except his dark, dark eyes, as black as the feathers of a crow.

"He is your guard, Brandon Stark. You must flee. Get out of here. Seek the truth and return home. That is what you have to do."

"That is my destiny? To bring the truth to the world? The truth about Jon? The truth about Robert's Rebellion?"

"There is no such thing as destiny, Brandon Stark. I have lived many years, and seen many die thinking it was their fate. You can change the future, and you can change the past. Remember that. You have to be able to save yourself, not expect the stars to do it for you."

The ranger grabbed him then, and threw him over his shoulder. They started to walk into the depths of the cave, and Bran looked at Leaf, and all the other children, as they disappeared. They stood in formation. Leaf locked eyes with his, and Bran could see the sadness that her many years had brought her. The last song of the Children was here, he realised. Why were they doing this? Why were they staying behind for him?

The darkness of the caves masked a chill. Summer ran at the heels of the Ranger, whilst Meera went behind. The eyes of the direwolf guided them. He flitted through the two of them, slipping into the wolf with no trouble. Summer's eyes were better than his, her legs were, too.

The caves seemed to go on forever, but the ranger never seemed to lose his way. Had he travelled through these caves before, or was somebody giving him directions?

Bran had thought about this. The ranger's eyes were black as night, and yet the eyes of the rest of the dead were the cold blue of ice. Why was he different? Was it some other form of magic that kept him alive? Who was responsible? He had thought it was Brynden, but he had long since been dead and faded into the weirwoods. Could he still be keeping the ranger animated?

Suddenly a cold wind hit them, and Bran could feel the crunch of snow beneath the ranger's feet. Summer ran forwards then, and Bran saw the light of fire ahead of them. They were near the exit. They were almost safe.

Then came the screams.

They were the screams of death and the wails of a dying song. They came down the caverns and the passageways, and he knew what it meant. They were here, and the Children of the Forest had made their stand, but they had failed. He could hear the sound of running further down the passageway, and then the ranger started to gallop after the wolf, with Meera running behind them.

"Today is not the day I die. Today is not the day I die. Today is not the day I die."

They hit straight into the cold air, and It blew into Bran's face.

There was a man there, holding the torch that they had seen from the cave. He had a thin face and a slim frame, and his eyes were almost as dark as the rangers. He was alive.

The ranger ran to him, and handed Bran across. The man hesitated for a second, and then pointed to a sled that he had alongside him. It was a silent exchange, before the man leaned in to the ranger's face, a questioning look on his hard face.

"Is that- By the old gods and the new- What happened to you."

"Go."

The ranger whispered to him.

"Go."

The stranger knelt down next to the sled then, and fastened Bran in. He could see Summer and Meera stood near the entrance to the cave.

Then he saw the dead. They burst out of the entrance and went straight for Meera. Some of them grabbed her and tried to pull her into their crowd.

Then the ranger was amongst them, cutting them down. Summer ran to Bran's side, but Meera tried to fight. She had a sword. Where had she got that? From the cave? She tried to hack at the dead as the ranger did. She was trying to save him.

"Go. You have to go."

Meera stopped for a few seconds, and then jumped back, leaving the ranger alone to fend off the dead. The rest of them started running then. There was the stranger, pulling the sled, and Summer, his faithful direwolf running alongside him, and Meera.

Meera. He loved her, or so he thought. She must hate him now, though. He had failed to save Jojen from himself. He had let Hodor die alone and in the cold. He had let the ranger, who had guided them to that cave, that was so far away from her home, die.

He was dying, that was what Bran knew. None of the others could see, but he could. He watched him cut and slash and stab, but eventually the sheer weight of the dead pulled him under, and the ranger was finally at rest.

Now they were alone, with nothing but the cold and a strange man that they had never met before.


	51. The Traveller Returned Home

The Shadow City was a mess.

That was exactly as Archibald Yronwood remembered it being.

There was a gathering of merchants and citizens on the street. There was a tangible feel of dissatisfaction in the air, and he could hear mutterings of discontent whenever he passed a dark back alley. Doran Martell was starting to lose the people of Dorne, clearly.

House Martell had ruled over Dorne ever since Nymeria's landing and her subsequent wars, but the Dornish were possibly the hardest to rule of all of the Seven Kingdoms. Each and every lord thought they knew how to rule it best, and the Martells had plenty of houses that they had bad history with. How many of them would be willing to turn on Doran if the chance came for them?

His own house, the Yronwoods, had been a sworn enemy of the Martells for many years, a tension raised again by the Red Viper's murder of Arch's grandfather. Quentyn had been sent to Yronwood as part of Doran fulfilling a blood debt.

He wondered if his uncle would side with a rebellion against Doran. He had no love for Oberyn Martell, and would not care that the man was dead, but maybe he would seize the chance to displace an old rival.

"I don't like this feel, Arch. Let us get up to the castle and make our report. Then we can return home. I can't wait to sleep in my own bed."

He turned to look to his right, where his companion, Gerris Drinkwater, was walking. They must look like an odd couple.

There was Arch, with his broad shoulders, thick muscles, and bald head, next to gerris, who was tall and lean, with a shock of sandy blonde hair. Gerris took more pride in his looks than was healthy, but who could blame him. The man liked his women, and women liked him.

He also wasn't sure why Gerris was so keen to report to Prince Doran. Their message essentially comprised of the brutal details of the death of the Prince's eldest son.

Quentyn had been his friend. He still felt a pang whenever he thought of him, just like he did when he thought about Cletus, who had also been a casualty of their journey. They had been his friends. He hadn't been able to save them, or to protect them when they needed it most. He would have to report the deaths of sons to two fathers now. He wasn't looking forward to it.

They reached the first of the three gates that led to the Sandship, and that marked the entrance to Sunspear proper. It was already open, so they slipped through with minimal fuss. They didn't want to bring any awareness to who they were, in case they were set upon by members of the riled up crowd.

The Dornish were hot blooded and quick to anger. Everybody knew that. The entire Seven Kingdoms feared that. Oberyn Martell had embodied those traits. His death was always going to cause tensions to rise. He had always been the popular of the two brothers, outside of Yronwood and the lands sworn to it.

"Quentyn would have hated this. He knew that his father was trying to avenge the Viper. Why else would he send us halfway across the world to see if the Dragon Queen would help us dethrone the Lannisters? He has some sort of plan. We deserve to know what it is."

"We are no more than pawns to him, Drink. We are just knights that he sent to protect his son, and we failed at that, didn't we? He owes us nothing."

Drink huffed at that, and the two of them carried on walking on in silence. They passed countless bazaars and stalls on their walk up to the Sandship, from where House Nymeros-Martell had ruled Dorne for generations. Although there was no guarantee that the current Prince of Dorne would be there.

The last gate, which was part of the walls that protected the Sandship from the markets and buildings that made up the rest of Sunspear, was closed, with two guards stood at the foot, dressed in orange. Their armour was light, as was favoured by most of the Dornish, and they carried long spears.

"Who seeks to pass and enter the Sandship?"

"Ser Gerris Drinkwater and Ser Archibald Yronwood."

Gerris stepped forward at their question. He had always been better with people than either Arch or Quentyn.

"We are emissaries from Prince Doran Martell, returned after a long journey. We seek entrance to talk with him about our findings."

The two men stood stock still for a second, and then one of them left through a side gate, returning a few minutes later with a short, squat man, who wore the same armour as the guards, but with an orange cloak falling behind him, fastened by a sun and spear pin beneath his neck.

"I have been told that you two men are here to see the Prince of Dorne. May I ask who you are and what purpose you have here?"

"Your men should learn to recount better, ser. My name is Gerris Drinkwater, and this is Archibald Yronwood. We were sent on an epic journey by the Prince, and are now here to report what we have discovered, and the events that unfurled. Who would you be?"

The man bristled at that, and tried to stand as tall as he could.

"My name is Ser Manfrey Martell, of the noble line of Nymeria and Mors Martell. I am the castellan of this castle, and soon to be the Commander of the Guards to Queen Myrcella Baratheon herself."

Gerris raised an eyebrow at that.

"Queen Myrcella? Tommen Baratheon sits the Iron Throne, does he not?"

Ser Manfrey shook his head.

"Not for a number of weeks. Queen Myrcella rules the Seven Kingdoms now, and young Trystane sits beside her as her king. I am being sent to the capital by Doran to see that nothing ill befalls them."

"Yes. Okay. Whilst that may be true, we still seek access. May we pass?"

Manfrey nodded his head at the guards, who rushed to open the gates.

"May I ask where it is you two have been, Sers?"

Arch stepped forward then.

"You may, Ser. We will not tell you, however."

Soon enough the gates were open, and the two of them passed through. Manfrey pulled over a young guard to show them to the Prince.

The corridors and passageways of the Sandship were narrow, but there were few steps, and they found Doran soon enough. The Prince of Dorne was sat on a balcony, looking down over the courtyard below, and watching the men train.

Arch sank to his knee before his Prince, and Gerris followed, albeit more reluctantly. Doran indicated that they should rise. He had a forlorn look upon his face.

"You bring news. Is It true?"

"It is, my Prince. Quentyn is dead. I am sorry. We failed both you and him."

Doran didn't respond for a few seconds, and instead stared off into the distance.

"First Elia, then Oberyn, and now my poor Quentyn. This world is too cruel a place to take him from me. Did he die with honour?"

"He died trying to tame a dragon in your name, my Prince."

Doran inclined his head, and then turned to look at the two of them. His eyes were sombre, as was his face. The news had clearly hit him hard.

"He trusted both of you. I know that much. That is how I know that I can trust both of you, no matter what your house truly is. You will be with me, so as Quentyn did not die in vain. That is all I can do for him now."

It was then that Archibald realised that they weren't alone in the room. A woman stepped forward from the shadows. She was Dornish, with olive skin and long black hair, which looked like silk. Her eyes were soft and gentle, but felt as if she was holding something back.

"This is Ellaria Sand, brave knights. She was the paramour to my beloved brother, and bore him four of his children."

Then Arch noticed the two girls that followed the woman onto the balcony. They were both of a similar age, no more than thirteen years, if he had to guess, and had the same olive skin as their mother, with the same hair, but different eyes. Their eyes were dark and feisty, with an inner fire.

"The Viper's bastards."

He heard Gerris whisper that under his breath, and hoped that Doran would not hear him. He must know how the Yronwoods and Drinkwaters felt about his brother, so why present his children here?

"To serve as your squires, if you would have them. My brother insisted that all of his children be trained at arms. Dorea is to be feared with her Morningstar, and I gather Obella is developing quite the skill with a bravo's blade. Would you take them?"

Gerris looked at Arch, and then shook his head.

"I fear mine is not the company you would want young girls to keep, my Prince. Give them to Arch. He has always wanted children. Mayhaps he can teach them a thing or two."

"I would gladly take them, my Prince. I fear they will not be welcome at Yronwood, however. Your brother-"

Doran nodded.

"Alas, I had hoped time would heal the wounds that my brother caused on your house, Ser Archibald, but I understand. That is why I would offer you a post here. Ser Manfrey and his wife leave for King's Landing on the morrow. I would ask that you stay here, as the new Captain of the Guards."

Gerris looked at him again, as if questioning why Doran showed so much faith in him, but that was a question Arch couldn't answer. Was this another attempt at mending the broken bond between Houses Martell and Yronwood?

"I need time to think, my Prince."

"Of course. Take as much time as you need. Ellaria, my dear, would you mind taking the girls away. Me and our friends have things to talk about."

The woman inclined her head, and both girls hugged their uncle before leaving. As the door closed behind them, Doran moved his chair, so that he was looking at the two of them.

"Tell me about the dragon queen. Do you think she should sit the Iron Throne?"

"She rejected Quentyn as soon as she looked at him. She is too young and impetuous to properly govern the Seven Kingdoms. She needs to be older, or to have somebody to help guide her."

Doran nodded.

"We knew she was young, but if what you say is true and she has the same Targaryen unpredictability as Rhaegar… Maybe the boy would be better to our cause."

"Boy?"

That confused the two of them. Arch had assumed that Doran's backup plan would be Myrcella and Trystane, if that wasn't now his primary focus.

"That's right. The two of you haven't heard. A boy claiming to be Rhaegar's son with Elia has landed in the Stormlands. He claims that he is the rightful claimant of the Iron Throne, and calls for Dorne's support. I have sent my daughter to decide if he is worthy of it."

It was Gerris that spoke what they were both thinking.

"My Prince, you have control of the Iron Throne through Myrcella and Trystane, do you not? Why do you need a Targaryen to support? Let their house die out. You hold no obligation to them."

"I hold no grievance with the Princess Myrcella. Her family, however, murdered my son. Her mother condones those actions, and had Oberyn killed, and her brother, Ser Jaime, killed the Mad King despite being under oath to protect them. They are an accursed family, and Dorne must have it's fire and blood. The Targaryens are the only way that we can truly get our revenge."

Arch was surprised to see Doran Martell like this. Dorne knew him as a patient man, who avoided conflict wherever he could. He had nominally supported Joffrey Baratheon, but Dorne had lost no men in that war. Now he spoke of revenge this openly and freely? Something strange was going on here.

"I trust that both of you will wish to return home. I shall wait a month or two for your answer, Ser Archibald. I trust that you will make the right choice. I look forward to having you here. You have big boots to fill."

Doran then turned away then, and the two of them sensed that they had just been dismissed. They travelled back towards the courtyard, but Arch stopped at the door. Gerris turned to him.

"You can stay here if you like, but I'm going to find some women and some wine, and then drink and fuck until the events of the last year just never happened."

Then he was gone. Should he go after him? He wasn't in the mood for drinking. He wanted to remember Quentyn and Cletus before he found enjoyment for himself.

"Do you trust him?"

The voice caught him off guard. He turned and found a woman stood behind him.

She was striking, with dark hair and haunting, purple eyes. Her frame was slender. She wore a dress made up of different shades of purple. Her skin was unblemished, and looked to be soft and supple. She was beautiful.

"Ser Drinkwater? He is an old friend."

"But do you trust him?"

She walked closer to him, and smiled, teasingly.

"He is- I have known him near all my life."

"You avoid my question. Does it upset you thinking about whether a man you have known your entire life could be lying to you?"

He hesitated. She stepped closer. She placed her hand on the pommel of his sword.

"Friends are only as good as the amount of trust you place in them. Where do the loyalties of Gerris Drinkwater lie, I wonder? Is he loyal to Doran Martell, or somebody else entirely?"

"What do you know of my friends? Why would you ask me about them?"

She laughed, and moved away from him, before looking back at him over her shoulder. There was playful look in both her eyes and her lips.

"Come with me, Ser Archibald Yronwood."

Who was this woman, and how did she know who he was? Why was he asking him so many questions? He had so many questions he wanted answered, but still he hesitated to follow her. He did, though, just as she was about to turn down a side passage and out of sight.

He followed her through the corridors of the Sandship, eventually finding that she had stopped in a bedchamber. It was decorated with purple silks and incense holders. She was stood at the window, looking out over the bazaars of Sunspear.

"Who are you?"

She turned to him, a mischievous smile on her face.

"My name is Allyria Dayne, Ser. You are a well toned man, may I say. There cannot be many men more muscular than you are. What do you know about my house, Ser Yronwood?"

The Daynes were one of the oldest houses in Dorne. Before the rise of House Martell they had been one of the few houses that could rival the Bloodroyals of the Stoneway for power. They had been ancient kings.

More recently, Ser Arthur Dayne had served in the Kingsguard to the Targaryens. It was said that he was one of the finest knights that Westeros had ever known. He was the Sword of the Morning, who carried the legendary sword Dawn into battle. He had been killed by Eddard Stark at the end of Robert's Rebellion.

Were these the things that she meant?

"There are two branches of House Dayne. You know this, yes? The Daynes of Starfall are the liege lords of the Daynes of High Hermitage, but the houses are, shall we say, interchangeable. The Lord of High Hermitage can be named the Lord of Starfall if enough adult Daynes support him over the current Lord of Starfall. Do you understand?"

He nodded, although the concept confused him.

"This usually happens when the Lord of Starfall is weak and unable to govern, or when he has embarrassed House Dayne in front of the rest of Dorne. It is unusual for it happen. Now, are you familiar with Ser Gerold Dayne?"

"The Darkstar. I know of him by reputation. We have never met."

"He is a Dayne of High Hermitage. The Knight of High Hermitage, according to him, although the family line is complicated. He intends to press a coup on my nephew, Edric, by marrying me and trying to take the Lordship of Starfall."

Allyria came close to him, and he could smell her. She smelled of incense and flowers and other sweet things.

"I would ask you for your help. One last quest before Doran names you Captain of the Guard, Ser. Would you accept it?"

"What is the mission exactly?"

She smiled at him, and then began to speak again.

"Gerold has vanished into the Dornish Mountains to try and secure some support, should his coup go wrong and he requires a military force to back him up. He needs to be killed. I would ask you to do that for me, Ser."

"What do I get for doing it?"

There was a wicked smile on Allyria's face then, and she licked her lips as she looked at him.

"Why, Ser, I am surprised you need ask. I am your prize. I do not wish to marry Gerold, but the handsome knight of Yronwood… Well, I am the aunt to the Lord of Starfall, and the current heir. I would be a fine marriage for you, a cousin to the main branch, don't you think? My hand in marriage is the reward that I would give you."


	52. Patrek V

Patrek walked through the battlefield. There were dead bodies scattered everywhere. Some of them were men from the Riverlands, but most were men that wore the colours of Houses Spicer, Banefort, and Westerling. They were the three houses that had gathered to fight him here, beneath the walls of Castamere.

They had hit Banefort first, but found it nearly abandoned. Their lord had run when he heard that their army was approaching. The same had been true for the Crag. There had been a small force there, but it had fallen soon enough to the vanguard led by Brynden Tully. It had been a hollow victory.

The Crag was an old castle. It was the last bastion of a house that had fallen into debts and disrepute. Taking it had been no trouble for the Young Wolf during his war with the Lannisters, and it had been less of a problem for him, now that the entire surviving garrison had retreated to Castamere.

Not that it had served them very well.

The Westerlings had mostly been in the enemy vanguard here, under the command of Ser Samwell Spicer. They had been smashed by a combination of Brynden's vanguard, and the reserve of Lord Tytos Blackwood hitting them on the right flank, whilst the Spicer left was occupied by Olyvar Frey and his troops.

Patrek had personally led the right of his army, and had smashed them against the Banefort troops. He had killed more men than he had ever done before. Of course, he had seen war and battle before. He had killed where he had to, but these had been broken men.

They had been green boys that had never fought before, or old men who could barely hold their sword steady. He had killed them, not because he had to, but because he wanted to win. He wanted to save Edmure and save Jeyne, and because of that he had killed boys of no more than thirteen years. They were too young.

"Old stories claim that the Baneforts were descended from a necromancer, and that the Spicers have the blood of a witch in their veins. It makes you wonder how dark our houses are, doesn't it?"

He turned, and fount Tytos walking alongside him.

He was a tall and thin man, that others would call austere and cold, but Patrek knew that there was more to him than that. He had lost his son at the Red Wedding, and another two of his sons were missing. He had a right to want alone time.

"The Mallisters were fishermen of old. That's what my father told me, at least. We set up a lighthouse to commemorate a son who had died on the rocks of the coast, and then Seagard grew from there. No magic and no mystery."

"I'd tell you the history of my house, but there are so many stories that I'm not sure that I wouldn't be lying. We lived in the North of old, I know that much. We ruled half of what they now call the Wolfswood, but back then it was the Blackwood, from where we got our name. We bent the knee to House Stark when they named themselves Kings of Winter."

"Then my ancestors committed the crime of breaking guestright. We had had been part of a long and bloody feud with the Glovers, another house in the Blackwood. We invited the then Lord Glover to our castle, and then we murdered him and four of his sons. That was when we travelled south and made our home in Blackwood Vale."

Patrek looked to Tytos quizzically.

"Why are you telling me this?"

Tytos stared into the distance.

"I think it's very important that you be distracted after the first time you lead an army into battle. I understand how you must feel. I have been in your position before. It isn't an enjoyable one."

Patrek shook his head.

"I don't think you properly understand. When I go into that castle I'll have to decide on whether to execute Gawen Westerling and Rolph Spicer. Should I do it? Edmure said I had to. But-"

"But you think Westerling has done nothing wrong. He didn't help lure Robb Stark into the Twins. Rolph Spicer did. He deserves to die. I was robbed of being able to kill Walder Frey and Tywin Lannister. At least let me finish this one."

The two of them stopped and looked at each other. How silly he must seem, Patrek thought, to people like Tytos and Brynden, who had seen the world and lived through worse times than this. Tytos had lost a son. What had Patrek lost? His father was still alive, as were all his siblings.

"Rolph Spicer didn't kill Lucas, Tytos. I understand that you want justice for your son, but I can't allow you to use him to vent your anger."

Tytos was silent for a few seconds.

"Good decision, Ser Patrek. We will make a diplomat of you yet."

He started to walk away from Patrek, who watched him leave, but then Tytos turned.

"I believe Ser Brynden wanted to see you before you make your decision. He's already gone inside. You'll want to get in, too. Before the crows start to feast."

Then Blackwood was gone, towards what was left of the castle that had been Castamere.

It had been dry when they arrived, and was dry now. That disappointed him a bit. There was none of Tywin Lannister's rain. He had expected a bit more.

Most of Castamere's castle was built underground, and only a modest keep stood above ground. The mines were still blocked off, where Tywin had sealed them before, to drown all the members of House Reyne and Tarbeck that had taken refuge below.

They had drowned to death. Screamed as their children and their siblings went under the water, and all he had done was have a song written about it. He had been a monster. Hopefully some of them found peace when Tywin was killed. May he burn in the seven hells.

It should have been Tytos that got to kill Tywin, not the Imp. So many people had lost so much more to the lion of Lannister. Tytos would never truly get his justice, however.

He found Ser Brynden on the battlements of the wall that surrounded the keep. He was looking out at the battlefield from a distance. Had he been watching him talk with Tytos?

"War, boy. War is what mad tyrants bring down on their people. Aerys Targaryen and Robert Baratheon brought it on the Seven Kingdoms. Aegon the Conqueror and Maegor the Cruel. Daemon Blackfyre and Aegon the Unworthy. These men were all responsible for the deaths of thousands. My nephew is joining those people. We have to stop him and make him see sanity."

"Robb Stark-"

"Fought his war for justice. Joffrey Baratheon brought these wars on us. Him and Stannis Baratheon and Balon Greyjoy. Madmen and tyrants, don't you see?"

Patrek walked to the edge of the battlements, and looked out over the field of the dead.

"Edmure is hundreds of leagues away. He's at the Golden Tooth, sitting in comfort whilst we all fight his war for him. You want me to send a raven telling him that I think he's gone mad? He'd have any man in this castle arrest me and take my head, just like he wants me to do with Lords Westerling and Spicer."

"You're his friend, Patrek. He will listen to you more than anyone else. You must separate him from people like Jonos Bracken and Hugo Vance. They aren't good for his mindset."

Brynden was right, he knew that. This war was a folly. The Lannisters were weak now, but they wouldn't be forever, and lions had long memories, and they always paid their debts. What wrath would Edmure's lust for vengeance bring down on them all?

"When I next see him, we will talk about it, be assured of that. Right now I have other things to discuss. Send for the prisoners to be brought to the main hall. I want to see them. Get Olyvar and Tytos, too. We should probably have Benjen Bracken there, too, just so he doesn't complain, but that is all."

"As you say, Ser Patrek."

Brynden Tully left then, and Patrek made his way down from the battlements. He found Jeyne waiting for him below. She had been crying.

"Patrek-"

"I know what you're going to say, Jeyne. I know. Your father and uncle are innocent. Edmure is wrong to want them dead. Your uncle may have helped the Lannisters, but he was no key player. Your father- I'm certain he has committed no crime aside from supporting the wrong lord."

He walked on and past her, but she followed him, until they both stood before the doors to the keep of Castamere.

"You won't do it then? You'll spare them?"

"I'll talk with them and see what they say. I will not make any promises. My king has asked me to do this."

Jeyne shook her head.

"You shouted Robb's name, Ser Patrek. You shouted it. He was your king. He would never have done this. He wouldn't execute an innocent man for the crimes of others."

Patrek bowed his head. He hated what he had to say to her.

"Robb died, Jeyne. He died because of Tywin Lannister and Walder Frey. Your mother helped them. Your uncle helped her. If he dies then why is that not me giving Robb a little bit of justice? Does he not deserve that?"

"If you cared about fighting for Robb and his memory then you would have ridden north with your father and killed Lothar and Black Walder Frey. You rode west because you care more about following the orders of a madman."

Patrek turned away from her then, and pushed her away when she went towards him.

"We will talk again later. Not before. Wait for me, and I will bring you news."

He heard her sobbing again as he went into the hall. He found Olyvar, Tytos and Benjen already gathered. Then Brynden came up through a side door, accompanied by four Blackwood men and the three prisoners.

"Leave us."

The four men went as Brynden told them too, and the three prisoners sunk to their knees before him, a mere boy.

They were all grown men. Lord Spicer was a square man with greying hair. He looked tired and ill.

Lord Westerling was in better shape. He was clean shaven, with a round face and bland eyes. There was very little special about his appearance. He didn't look strong, and nor did he look clever. He had spent most of the war at Seagard, and Patrek had talked with him on occasion whilst there.

"Ser Patrek! I did not think it was you that attacked us! You remember me, do you not? I- We talked. I offered you my daughter's hand-"

"An offer that my father rejected, my lord, and then your daughter married a king, not a knight. I am not so glad that we meet again on these terms. Did you know that your wife conspired with Tywin Lannister to murder Robb Stark, my lord?"

Gawen looked perplexed.

"Sybell? Where is she? They told me she would be coming home with Prester? I was waiting-"

"And she never came back. Nor will she. Lady Sybell Spicer has been found guilty of conspiring with Tywin Lannister to organise the Red Wedding. She has been executed. I am sorry, to both you and her brother."

Patrek noticed that Gawen looked less sad than he did astounded. He was either a very good actor or his wife had never shared with him the details of her plans with Tywin. He had been a prisoner for most of the war, though, so that didn't surprise him.

It was Rolph that looked most wounded by the news.

"Sybell? You killed her? She- She was approached by Tywin. She couldn't say no. She couldn't. Do you know what he would have done to her or her family if she had? He would have buried us alive and drowned us like he did the Reynes, or worse. She had no choice."

Patrek ignored Lord Spicer's outburst and carried on.

"I can inform you, however, that both your daughters and your son, Rollam, have been spared, and two of them travel here with me. Rollam is a good boy. He is my squire."

"That is a relief. I have been worrying about the children most of all. Can I see them? Have they asked about me?"

Patrek hesitated then. Gawen wasn't making this easy for him.

"I have been ordered to take your heads, my lords. My king thinks that both of you were complicit in the Red Wedding. Tell me the truth. Were you?"

Gawen shook his head ferociously.

"I-"

Tytos stepped forward then.

"Answer honestly. My son died because of your lord and his alliance with the Freys. I am eager to see him avenged, even in a small way."

"I swear by the seven gods. I did not know anything about the Red Wedding, or what my wife was conspiring to do. I swear. I am innocent. That is the truth."

"And you, Lord Spicer?"

Rolph was staring at the floor, his whole body quivering.

"Did I conspire to murder your monster of a king? I didn't conspire. It was my idea. Sybell didn't know what to do. Tywin had written to us asking us to set up the Stark boy. It was my idea to use some of our grandmother's love potions on Jeyne. We knew the Stark boy would wed her if they slept together, and he did. It was he that killed your son, my lord. Not whichever Frey plunged a dagger in his heart."

Tytos almost went for him, but Olyvar and Brynden held him back. Patrek stepped forward.

"Ser Benjen, may I have your sword?"

Benjen Bracken pulled the sword from its sheath and handed it over to him. He walked to stand beside Rolph Spicer.

"Lord Rolph Spicer, you are found guilty of conspiring to mass murder, kingslaying, and working with the treacherous House Lannister. I am now forced to have to execute you for your crimes. Do you have any last words?"

Rolph looked up at him as he held the sword ready.

"I didn't kill your king. Your king killed himself, and all your dead friends, too. Edmure Tully will never-"

Then the sword cut through his neck. It was a clean blow, and Rolph Spicer's head rolled across the floor, his body slumped on the floor, blood flowing.

Patrek turned away, not wanting to look at what he had just done. He could see Tytos, though, and the gleam in his eye as he stared at the head.

"What about the other two, Ser Patrek?"

Patrek took a few seconds to register that question, and then he looked at Olyvar. It took him even longer to respond.

"Ser Benjen. Take some of your men and escort these prisoners to Seagard, back along the way we came. Once you have handed them over there then you should ride to the Golden Tooth and report of the death of Rolph Spicer to our king. Do you understand?"

He bowed his head slightly, and left the room. Patrek crossed the pool of blood that had gathered on the floor. He knelt down next to Lord Westerling.

"I am going to trust that you knew nothing about what happened, my lord. I spare your life today, and you owe me a blood debt. Begone. I wish to be alone. All of you leave!"

They left, and shortly after a few men stepped in to clean up Spicer's body and blood. Patrek stared at it as he was taken away. He had done that. He had ended that man's life before he had even had the chance to stop speaking. What had he become? Was he becoming as bad as Edmure?

He seated himself on one of the steps that led up to the high seat of Castamere. It was uncomfortable but comfort wasn't something that he deserved.

"Patrek?"

He looked up then, to his right. Jeyne was there. How long had she been watching him? Had she seen him kill her uncle?

"I saw my father, Patrek, before Ser Benjen took him away. Thank you for sparing his life. Was he innocent?"

"I believe he was. Your uncle-"

She stepped closer and sat down next to him.

"Ser Brynden already explained to me. He worked with my mother to kill Robb. You killed him for that, as you should have done. Robb was my first love. I am glad you think some justice has been found for him."

"I- I killed him, Jeyne. He was your kin and I killed him. I didn't even let him finish his last words. What have I become?"

She ran her hand through his hair, and he felt tears spill out of his own eyes as she touched him. What must she think of him now?

"I forgive you, Patrek. My uncle was a bad man. He says that he gave me potions to love Robb, but I don't think that is true. I loved Robb because he was kind and brave. He loved me, too. My uncle can say whatever he wants, but our love for each other was real."

"How can love survive in this world? Everything else dies."

Jeyne put her arm around his shoulders then, and rested her head on his shoulder.

"My father told me a story once. It was about a dragon prince who loved someone that he shouldn't. He married her, and they loved each other for many years, even though he abandoned his throne and his castle for her."

"What happened to them?"

"They died in a fire. Father never told me that part, though. He always used to tell me that they lived happily ever after. I only found out about the real ending when Raynald told me after an argument. I cried for hours. It seems silly now. I miss him."

She took his hand and squeezed it.

"Thank you"

"For what?"

"Sparing my father."

He looked at her.

"You already thanked me for that."

"I know."

She whispered into his ear, and then they were kissing. Their lips were locked together, and their cheeks pressed against each other, both wet from tears.

For a few seconds, Patrek forgot about everything.


	53. Arthor IV

The cold winds of winter didn't affect Arthor as much as they did his southron companions.

Robin Ryger was virtually frozen, and could barely guide his horse straight he was quivering so much. The Maester was bundled up in thick winter clothes, and still his teeth endlessly chattered together. He had considered gutting him right here and now just for him testing his patience.

Marlon Manderly also didn't look very happy about the journey. It was warmer down in White Harbour, even during winter, and the Manderlys were southrons at heart. Not like the Karstarks. They were practically born of winter.

The only ones who seemed to be enjoying this journey were Aegor Stane and the bard that Wyman Manderly had sent with them. He was clearly of the north, although he barely spoke with Arthor, which was fine with him. He hated singers.

It was Aegor that he rode alongside. The boy was of Skagos, which meant that Arthor had mistrusted him at first, but he was the only one of these men that he didn't think was working for Wyman.

Plus, he didn't expect Arthor to do too much of the talking.

"How can this be affecting them so badly? Back home on Skagos we call this a slight chill. Nothing more than a cold wind coming in from sea. Is this what all you mainlanders are like? I've never really met that many of you."

"What about those that get stranded on your home?"

Aegor shrugged.

"They don't tend to want to talk much. Most of them die when they crash. Others die fighting us. Some settle, but they are few and far between."

They rode on in silence for a while. Arthor wondered whether Aegor had met Marlon Manderly when he rescued Rickon Stark from the island. Probably not. There was little purpose asking.

"D-D-Do we grow nearer, Ser Karstark?"

That was Robin Ryger, who had pulled up next to him.

Ryger was a friend of Desmond Grell, and a man who had spent most of his life in service to the Tullys of Riverrun. Arthor had little doubt that he was now in service to House Manderly. He was just as bad as Desmond Grell.

"We grow nearer every stride our horses take, Ser Robin. If you mean when we will get there, then I would suggest that we make camp soon and journey the rest of the way on foot tomorrow."

He dismounted his horse, and walked it to underneath a tree, before handing it over to Tybald, the maester that Stannis had sent with them. He wasn't much use at setting up camp, so Arthor had left him to look after the horses each night. It was all he was good for, really.

He had been sent so that Arthor could report back news from Karhold without relying on the Wildlings. The old maester for the castle had joined the Boltons in Winterfell, and so they needed to bring their own. Tybald was the old Bolton maester. Arthor didn't trust him.

"Let me sing you all some songs of great heroes and their journeys, my friends."

Arthor turned, and found Abel had taken out his lute and was starting to pluck at the strings. Aegor enjoyed listening to the man, as did Ryger and Manderly. Arthor found himself somewhere to rest and cleared out the snow, before laying down his blanket. It didn't take him long to get to sleep.

He was woken up the next morning by the sound of voices. He kept his eyes closed, so as not to alert possible foes to the fact that he was awake.

"Not even a guard. If we were worser men then we coulda killed them in their sleep and taken all their riches."

"We still could."

He heard the sound of one of them spitting on the ground.

"Bollocks to that. Sigorn wants to talk with these southerners. He reckons we need their support, and I reckon I agree with that, even if the thought does make me member shrivel up."

So, these were men from the wildling that held Karhold then. Maybe that meant they were friends, and they could afford to confront them.

"Look at this one. His beard is bigger than his cock, I suspect. Not me, though. My member stretches out longer than any beard known to man."

That was it. He rolled over, and went for his sword. No sooner had he got to it, however, but he found a knife at his throat. He dropped his weapon, and looked up at his assailant.

It was an old man. He was short, but with a large chest and brought shoulders. His beard was the same colour as snow, and fell down to his waist. He wore great bands of gold or bronze on his arms, which were inscribed with runes.

"So, you are awake, ay? It's rude not to announce yourself, southerner. My name is Tormund Giantsbane, Tall-talker, Horn-blower, and Breaker of Ice. Also, Tormund Thunderfist, Husband to Bears, the Mead-king of Ruddy Hall, Speaker to Gods and Father of Hosts. This is my son, Toregg, who they call the Tall. He is yet to get any other titles."

Arthor looked to Tormund's companion, and saw that he was indeed a tall, giant of a man. He didn't see the family resemblance. Maybe the wildling's wife had been unfaithful to her boorish husband. Or, more likely when north of the wall, she had been raped, and this Toregg was the product of that. He wondered if Tormund knew. It was probably best not to broach the subject with the man whilst he had a knife to his throat.

"You should lower the knife, father. Sigorn wants this lot alive."

"Aye, that he does, son. You have the wits of your mother, for sure."

Tormund lowered the blade, which Arthor noticed was made of a curious black, glasslike stone, and then moved on to rouse the other members of Arthor's party. The maester refused to get up, until Tormund buried a boot in his chest.

"Right, boys. I don't know you, and you don't know me. I don't trust you. I won't take your weapons, but you should know that it isn't just me and my son out here with you buggers. You're surrounded, so best not try anything, ay?"

Arthor was reluctant to follow the man. He couldn't help but feel that Tormund Giantsbane was threatening them when he mentioned the troops around them. Maybe there was more to their presence than what the old man was saying.

"Let us go. I have a fire in my room, and I don't want to be out here freezing my member off all morning."

Tormund started to walk then, with his son taking up the rear. The maester was slow, as you would expect, and Arthor could hear Toregg kicking him up the backside every now and again. Ryger wasn't much faster, though Abel seemed more at home walking through the snow. He went at the head of their party, walking alongside Tormund.

Arthor walked in silence. He knew these woods. He had hunted here with Harrion, Torrhen and Eddard. He had taken girls out here and felt their sweet kisses, and then their sweet breasts. He had laid in the grass here and had maesters give him lessons on heraldry and houses. These were his home.

He glared at the back of Tormund's head.

Him and his wildling rapers and raiders had taken what belonged to House Karstark. They had taken little Alys, and now they had taken his home and the castle where he had grown up, as well as the forests that had seen so much of his childhood.

Then, as if out of nowhere, Karhold rose above them.

It was a mighty castle. It was smaller than Winterfell, but held more than Castle Cerwyn, Deepwood Motte or Last Hearth. The Karstarks had been fourth only to the Stark of Winterfell, the Manderlys of White Harbour, and the Boltons of the Dreadfort in terms of power before this war. Now they had been reduced to nothing.

Well, almost nothing.

Arthor couldn't help but smile as he saw Alys amongst the party waiting for them at the gate. She rushed forward, away from her group, and wrapped her thin arms around him in an embrace. He picked her up, and spun her gently, as he had always done when they had been younger. This was home.

There wasn't just Alys waiting for him. He shook hands with the Thenn boy, who looked to be unintelligent and brash, and saw his father, the senior Arthor Karstark, though he could not make his gaze. He knew why his father would hate him. He had betrayed his name, and murdered his brothers, cousins and grandfather for Stannis Baratheon.

There wasn't a night that went by that he didn't dream of their screams and their protests. They haunted him. That was the price that he paid for supporting the one true king.

Sigorn came up to him after the meeting, with Tormund stood just behind him.

"My wife tells me you grew up here. Your name is Arthor, of the Karstark house. I would be honoured if you and your companions dine with us tonight, so that we may discuss our common enemy."

"Roose Bolton has threatened you, too?"

Sigorn looked taken aback, and looked to Tormund quizzically. The old wilding shrugged his shoulders, and Sigorn turned back to him.

"I have no problems with this Roose Bolton that you speak of. I mean the army of the dead that walk beyond your Wall. They come for us all, and we must unite to stop them. That is what King Crow told us. I believe that your king knew him."

Arthor had heard Stannis talk about the army of the dead, and how Jon Snow had told him repeatedly that all the people of Westeros would have to unite together to fight them, whether they be wildling and northman, or Marcher Lord and Dornishman.

Frankly, Arthor thought there was more chance of a Lannister giving their wealth to charitable causes than the men of the North willingly fighting alongside the wildlings, and the notion had done Jon Snow little good either. The boy was dead.

"We will dine with you to discuss your surrender to Stannis Baratheon, King on the Iron Throne, and nothing else. You will help us defeat Roose Bolton, and then whatever wars you think you have to fight will be discussed after. Have somebody show me to my chambers."

He walked away from the man who called himself the Lord of Karhold. It was unlawful. He disliked both Sigorn and Tormund. Neither of them were worthy of his home. The world would have been served better if both of them died beyond the Wall.

Then the crowd of gathered people threw him in front of his father.

They looked very little alike. His father was squat, with a bald head and chin, a large stomach, and had a round, fat face. Arthor was tall with a mighty beard. The only thing they had in common was their name.

"Greetings, father."

"Do not call me that. You are no son to me. Your brothers. They were my sons. The same brothers that you burned alive on the orders of your heretic king. You have become a monster, and I will have no part in that wicked transformation."

Arthor hanged his head as his father moved away, and then made his way into the castle, shown the way to his chambers by a young wildling. He was chunky with thick arms and legs. There was the beginnings of a beard on his chin. It didn't take him long to realise that this one was one of Tormund's sons also. He took note of where Tormund went when he went inside, so that he knew where his chambers were.

Alys had seen fit to give him the same room that he had grown up in. He was glad of that, as he would have been haunted by the memories of his brothers even more had he been forced to sleep in their beds. There was a small fireplace, but he didn't want warmth tonight. He wanted to feel at home.

Just then there was a knock on the door. He opened it, and the maester bumbled in.

Tybald was red headed, with round shoulders and eyes that were too close together. His nose was small, and his eyes shimmered green, although they were no emeralds. They were dull, and shimmered only because of the water in his eyes.

"I- I received a raven from Castle Cerwyn, my lord. King Stannis asks for a report on the state of Karhold the moment that you arrive. Should- Should I send something back to him?"

Arthor held out his hand.

"Show me the letter, maester. I would read my king's words myself."

Tybald hesitated then, and put his hand into the pockets of his grey cloak. He wore the chain around his neck, but it looked like it was weighing him down. Why wasn't he handing over the letter?

"I- I left it in my chambers, my lord. I am sorry. I thought my words would be enough. Would you have me fetch it?"

"I would have you show me whatever it is that you're hiding, maester. In fact, I would demand that you, in the name of the king that we both hold, show me what you're holding in your pocket!"

He grabbed the maester by the throat, and pushed him against the wall of the room. He forced his other hand into the man's pocket, and pulled out a scroll of parchment. It was small, and the letter was short.

"My Lord."

He started to read, putting more and more pressure onto the man's throat.

"This is your trusted servant, Tybald Lannister. I write to you from Karhold, where the Magnar of Thenn, who calls himself the new Lord Thenn has taken the castle, and taken the Karstark daughter as his bride. Arnolf is dead. His sons are missing or have bent the knee to the wildling. The party sent by the traitor Stannis Baratheon will travel past the Dreadfort in approximately five days' time. I implore you to come save me and kill my companions."

"I am your servant and your servant alone, Lord Bolton. Tybald."

He threw the paper into the ashes of the fire, and turned his attention back onto Tybald, the maester. He had not known he had been of House Lannister originally. Stannis can't have known either, otherwise he would never have trusted him on a mission of this importance.

"You're a traitor. I thought as much. I knew I couldn't trust you, Tybald. I knew that Stannis was wrong in sending you with us. He should have sent Rhodry."

Arthor dropped Tybald to the floor, and then picked his longsword up from the bed. Tybald was cowering against the wall as he took steps towards him. He raised his sword, and thrust it through his stomach, dragging it along, and allowing the man's guts to spill onto the floor. He stood over his body and looked down on him as he died. The man stank of piss and shit. He was a craven. Arthor had always thought that, but now he knew. The man was nothing.

He walked his way up to the Lord's Solar, where Sigorn was holding a small gathering. When he got there, he found only wildlings, as well as the bard, Abel.

The bard was deep in song, singing of the King Beyond The Wall known as Bael the Bard, who snatched the daughter of a past Lord Stark and impregnated her. The wildlings liked to say that the bastard of that union had later gone on to become Lord Benjen Stark, the grandfather of the famous Lord Cregan. That was all a lie, of course.

The Stark bloodline was pure. Most Starks would marry into other Northern houses, or, at the very least, Old God loyalist houses from the south, like the Blackwoods or the Royces.

Tormund was the first of the wildlings to turn to him when he entered. The old wildling clapped his hands.

"Ser Karstark, you join us at last. Young Sigorn was unsure as to whether you would show today. You do not want to acknowledge the true enemy. I understand that. I wish that I hadn't seen them myself. I have, and I know that you would be as scared to the bones as I am by what is coming."

"If you wanted the support of King Stannis Baratheon to fight this imaginary foe that you have created, then you will have to commit men to fight Roose Bolton, the usurper who calls himself the Lord of Winterfell."

Tormund thought for a few seconds. He mused, and his face was one of contemplation.

"Bolton… I know the name. Jon Snow talked to me of a bastard of Bolton. He claimed to have killed some of my people. I say we send men to aid this Stannis Baratheon."

Sigorn stepped forward then, and the other wildlings moved away from him.

"My father supported Mance Rayder, who this Stannis Baratheon burned alive. Why should I believe that he will not do the same with me, or my friends and allies? Why should I risk my men fighting this Roose Bolton who offers no threat to me, when I will need all those men for the war to come?"

"Because the rightful king has called on your support. You were wed to my cousin by Jon Snow, correct? He was a friend to my king. You should be friends, too."

Tormund spoke up then.

"If Stannis Baratheon the southerner was so friendly with Lord Snow, then why did he not ride north when the boy was murdered? Or send some sort of envoy to bring justice down on the treacherous Bowen Marsh? He cared little for the boy. It was I that saw him avenged, no king of the south."

"You have been given the terms of your surrender. That was all I was instructed to do. Come, Abel. I would talk with you in private."

Arthor left, but as he did, he saw Abel meet eyes with Tormund. That was a suspicious sign, but maybe the two had bonded over their love of song. He had already found the traitor in their group. He didn't suspect another one.

"Go tell Aegor and Robin to ready the horses. Make sure that Manderly is awake and ready to leave. We must make our return to Castle Cerwyn. Our job here is done, and our lives are all in danger."

Abel had a thin smile playing on his lips, and there were laughter marks in the corners. Could he be trusted? He had thought the maester untrustworthy, but Abel had no history. He was a Manderly man, and he had no reason to be loyal to Stannis Baratheon.

When Abel was gone, he returned to his rooms, where the maester's body was still laid on the floor, slumped in the corner. Arthor pushed his guts back inside of him, getting his hands bloody in the process, and then picked him up.

Karhold was dark now, and he managed to find his way to Tormund's rooms without too much trouble. He laid the maester down outside the door, before heading back down to the gates of the castle. He found Aegor, Robin, Marlon and Abel waiting with their horses. They had found the maester's horse, too.

"Where is Tybald? Why have we been brought her? Abel says you want us to leave. Why should we?"

That was Marlon Manderly. He was a brash man, and another of his party that he didn't trust. Maybe he was reporting everything that happened to them back to Wyman Manderly, just as Tybald had been doing with Roose Bolton.

"Tybald has been killed, my friends. He was murdered by one of those wildling bastards. I saw it happen. The one called Tormund. He gutted him for no reason. We aren't safe her. We aren't safe from them. We have to go and report their treachery to King Stannis."

Aegor, Robin and Marlon then mounted their horses with no more objection, but Arthor could see Abel's eyes on him. He still had the playful smile, and his eyes suggested he knew that he was lying. He could be dealt with later, though. He was no soldier, and he did not fear the bard. What could he do to him? He was the king of nothing, and had no men at his back.


	54. Lord Stark

Theon disliked Castle Cerwyn. The design reminded him too much of Winterfell, with it's dull grey walls, and many steps and passageways. It was smaller than the Stark home, obviously. It reminded him of his torture at the hands of Ramsay Bolton, and of the betrayal of Brandon and Rickon Stark that had brought that torture on him as a fair punishment. He had betrayed them, and he had betrayed Robb.

He thought of Robb a lot these days. He thought of how Robb had died, so far away from the home that he so loved. The same was true for Lord Eddard, of course. He had betrayed them both.

He thought of Jon too, sometimes. The bastard boy that he had teased, but he had been more Stark than Theon. He had been Lord Eddard's own son, not some imposter. He had died away from his home, just like Robb.

He should have been at the Twins when the Freys betrayed him. He should have been there, to die at the side of his friend and his king. Instead he had been in the North, calling himself the Prince of Winterfell, as if there was any truth or glory in that title. Theon Turncloak had been what the North called him before, and it was true now, even if they had taken to calling him Lord Stark.

He hated it. He had done nothing to right his wrongs. Roose and Ramsay Bolton were still alive, and the two Starks he had chased from their homes were still gone.

Mikken was dead. Chayle was dead. Luwin and Farlen were both dead. Their lives had been lost because of him. How could he ever right that wrong, and how could men of the North like Lord Wull and Mors Umber forgive his crimes? He would never be able to.

He stood on the battlements of the castle, looking north, along the Kingsroad, to where he knew Winterfell stood. The Boltons sat in those halls, even now, desecrating the home that had belonged to Lord Eddard and Robb, and even the bastard. They sat there because of him.

Ramsay had made him into Reek. He had been a broken man with broken oaths and he suffered immensely. He had deserved that. He was free of those chains and those knives, now, and he was free of Reek. Now he was back to being Theon Turncloak, no matter what the Northern Lords called him. He was no Stark, and he did not deserve what they were saying about him. He didn't deserve any of it.

He was a bastard, if anything. He would never truly be a Greyjoy. He would never be accepted on the Iron Islands after all that had happened, and he would never be able to call himself a Stark either. Who was he and where was he going? Was he still Reek? Was he just waiting for Ramsay to come and take him away and begin punishing him for escaping in the first place.

What had Lord Eddard told him once. When winter comes, which it always does, and the white winds blow, then the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives. He was a lone wolf. He was nothing, and there was nobody who truly cared for him. He was a bastard born of the North and the Iron Islands.

"Lord Stark."

Theon turned at that, recognising the voice as that of Mors Umber. He stood behind him, flanked by Morgan Liddle and Larence Snow, the Bastard of Hornwood.

The boy had been one of those brought to Castle Cerwyn with Wyman Manderly. He looked out of place aside Mors and Morgan, and it was unusual to see Umber without Hugo Wull in tow.

"Your presence has been requested in the Manderly quarters, my lord. Come with us."

That felt like more of a command than a request, so Theon fell in line with the three of them. He was of a height with Larence, though the bastard walked quicker than him, as he had all of his toes still on his feet. Theon was starting to get used to their absence, but still his walk was more of a hobble.

The Manderlys and the other Northern lords had taken little time taking over part of the castle. They were in the rooms directly beneath those of Lady Cerwyn, who had been allowed to keep her chambers and her solar, even though it was to be used for military meetings, which she was always invited to.

Theon remembered that Cley Cerwyn had been one of the lords that had gathered under Ser Rodrik Cassell when he had first taken Winterfell. Ramsay had killed them all. He felt for Lady Jonelle.

The solar connected to Wyman Manderly's chamber was near full of Northern lords and other representatives of great Northern houses. There was Lady Maege Mormont, minus her daughters, and Lord Galbart Glover, along with his brother Robett, and Hugo Wull stood in the corner.

Then there was Brynden Blackwood, the eldest son of Lord Blackwood from the south. The Blackwoods were one of the few houses in the south that still held the Old Gods of the North. There were others, but most of them didn't do it publically.

Then there was Ondrew Locke, who Theon recognised from Winterfell. The man was old, and had a thin face with a hooked nose. He had reminded Reek of a bird, and Theon could see why. He was seated, no doubt due to his age, and looked like he may be asleep.

Ned Woods stood beside Benjicot Branch, who represented some minor houses sworn to House Glover from the Wolfswood, and then there was a few men that Theon didn't recognise by their house symbols.

Then, of course, there was the large Lord Wyman Manderly, seated at his desk, a half eaten lamprey pie in front of him. He was wearing a large jerkin of light blue, with a dark blue cloak over his back. Some of the Baratheon men claimed that Wyman had men in his employ whose sole role was to help dress him in the morning.

"Ah, my dear Theon Stark, as you are now going by! I was wondering how long it would take dears Mors, Morgan and Larence to find you. Not as long as I expected. Take a seat, or stand, whatever is your want."

Theon sat, as that was more comfortable on his broken feet, but when he tried to sit somewhere out of sight, he suddenly found Hugo Wull in his way, and was forced into sitting before Wyman, on the opposite of the desk. He felt surrounded by the lords of the North.

Maybe they were finally going to see through the lies that they had all created about him and punish him for betraying Robb and Lord Eddard. Maybe they would burn him as he had those two boys, so that Stannis would never be able to tell that it was him. That would be a fitting fate for Theon Turncloak.

"Rickon Stark is alive, Lord Theon, although you already knew that, didn't you? The wildling woman kept him alive, although she died in the process. He will be the new Lord of Winterfell, I expect, and Stannis would have us stay loyal to a boy who is little more than a babe. He needs a regent. Stannis will make that you."

Theon was not surprised. Stannis Baratheon had invited him to all his war councils, even though Theon never spoke at them. He was buttering him up, as he saw Theon as a cheap, obedient way of securing the support of the Northern Lords.

They followed him after he helped them take the Dreadfort, and he asked for less than Wyman Manderly did for his support. In fact, Theon asked him for nothing.

"You have to reject the offer. We believe it would be better if my son, Ser Wylis Manderly, serve as the Lord Regent of the North under Stannis Baratheon. Do you understand?"

Theon was uninterested in furthering his power. He didn't deserve to rule Winterfell again, so abdicating the right to Ser Wylis wouldn't be a big deal for him.

"No! Abdicate it to House Mormont! We have held Bear Isle for many generations, and know how to defend the North from our enemies!"

"I shall govern for young Rickon! I helped find him after all! House Glover and the Starks have held a long friendship! We are the only choice!"

"Larence Snow is more of an age with the boy-"

"Lord Ondrew is the eldest! He has seen more winters than any of us!"

"Mors Umber served well as castellan at Last Hearth! Name him Lord Regent!"

Many of those gathered started calling things out, in opposition of Wylis Manderly taking the title. Theon heard Maege Mormont, Robett Glover, Ned Woods, Brynden Blackwood, Benjicot Branch, and Hugo Wull. It was clear from there that the Northern Lords weren't as united a faction underneath Wyman Manderly than some of the Baratheon followers believed.

"Silence. Silence. We have discussed this, friends. House Manderly are the most powerful house of the North-"

Maege Mormont spat on the floor at that.

"You call yourself Northern, you fat fool? Take up the Old Gods-"

Ondrew Locke rose from his seat at that.

"You mock him, yet you think we would bend the knee to a woman regent with more wildling blood than Northern? I say no to that!"

"Mayhaps we should settle this with arms, if you can even lift a sword!"

Larence Snow rose for Ondrew.

"You should not threaten Lord Ondrew like that. He has survived through more hardships than you have ever known, Mormont-"

"Quiet yourself, bastard."

Galbart Glover now had his hand at his sword.

"Lady Mormont lost her heir at the Red Wedding. Do not talk to her about hardships. She has more right to serve as Lady Regent than you."

"Aye, brother, but less right than a man of House Glover, unless you have betrayed the ancient line of our house for the elderly bitch of Bear Isle."

It was Robett Glover confronting his brother now, and then Morgan Liddle stepped forward.

"The Glovers are hardly an ancient house. You claimed no crown before the Kings of Winter. The Liddles meanwhile ruled over the entire of the Mountain Clans-"

"And yet you now answer to Wulls, Morgan. Maybe you should think before pushing your claim."

Hugo Wull silenced Liddle easily enough, and Mors stepped forward to back him.

"I think it is clear to all of us gathered that none of us are capable of leading the North without causing more problems. The North should be united as one, not squabbling like infants!"

Hugo then started to speak.

"Theon Greyjoy was a man we called Theon Turncloak. He delivered us the Dreadfort, and all the Bolton scum who lived therein. He stood up when we needed him. He should serve as Lord Regent of Winterfell. He is the only choice."

Theon saw some of the other lords nodding. Then Robett Glover stepped forward.

"Theon Stark! Theon Lord!"

Galbart joined in the calls, then Benjicot Branch and Ned Woods, then Maege Mormont, Larence Snow, Morgan Liddle, and Ondrew Locke. Theon locked eyes with Wyman Manderly as the calls echoed around the room, and he found the man's eyes to be cold and unforgiving.

He left soon after that, and began walking towards his chambers, when suddenly he was confronted by Ser Richard Horpe, Stannis' most trusted knight and Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.

"You have been called to the Lord's Solar by King Stannis Baratheon, Theon Turncloak. It would be best to not make him wait any longer."

Another war council? How many more of these did they need to decide that they couldn't take Winterfell by force. Godry Farring, the large one who called himself Giantslayer, kept pushing for an assault on the walls, but more men would die in that battle than would survive, and there was only a small chance they would successfully take the castle.

He made his way up to the Lord's solar of Castle Cerwyn, where he found Stannis sat. He was alone, though. Usually the room was full of Northmen and southerners when Stannis wanted his military advice. It was usually packed.

"I bring Theon Greyjoy to talk with you, your grace."

"As I asked, Horpe. You may leave us."

Richard stayed where he was stood. He didn't move.

"Your grace, are you sure that this is wise? This man is a Turncloak. He betrayed the people that he saw as his family. I do not think that-"

"If I kept you by my side for what you think then I would have named you to my council, not my Kingsguard. Be gone, Horpe."

Richard Horpe ground his teeth, but then left, even though it was against his wishes. He did what his king told him. If only Theon had done that when Robb had sent him away. If only he had returned instead of betraying him.

Stannis indicated for Theon to sit opposite him, which he did. He found this king colder than Robb, and less violent than his father, who had ruled over the Iron Islands. He was calmer, but still stern and prepared. He knew that he had to beat the Boltons, but he wasn't going to rush into it, as Godry Farring desired. He would not lose his war in an attempt to win it slightly quicker.

"I have been waiting for you. I would like to make a proposition to you, Theon."

He paused for a second, as if expecting Theon to respond to that announcement. He didn't, and so Stannis continued speaking.

"I have to control the North. Rickon Stark is held by House Manderly. When he is revealed as the new Lord of Winterfell, I will need someone to represent me in the North, and to make sure this boy doesn't do anything that he shouldn't. Do you accept the call?"

Theon looked down at his hands. He was missing fingers, where Ramsay had taken them. Could he dare to oppose Ramsay as openly as this? He would be punished even harsher if he ever fell ito his hands again. He would suffer and feel pain like he hadn't felt before. He would be Reek all over again.

"I- I am not of the North, your grace. You would be better naming Ser- Ser Wylis Manderly, or Robett Glover, or Mors Umber-"

"And yet I have not asked any of them to serve me. You are more of the North than you know. My brother Robert once told me that the North was wild and untameable. You were taken prisoner by this Bolton bastard, and yet you survived. You are the North, Theon."

"I am a Greyjoy-"

Stannis raised his hand.

"Your father betrayed my brother, and after the Siege of Pyke I told him he should take his head and name you the Lord of Pyke. Your father betrayed me again, and his house has been bastardised by his brother. I would legitimise you as a Stark, Theon, provided you support me in this. I would name you the head of House Greystark, reviving a house of old."

Theon looked down at his hands more intensely. Could he betray his father? Could he betray his sister? Could he betray his people? His father had never treated him well, and had called him a traitor before, when he made his return to Pyke. He had little guilt over betraying his father, but Asha…

She was not here, however. He had to do this. He would be at home at last, and could fight to save Rickon, for the memory of Robb, and for Lord Eddard, and for Jon Snow. He would do it for them, and he would do it well.

"I will answer the call, your grace. I will represent your will in the North when you travel south."

"Excellent. Leave me now, then. I will have to break the news to Lord Manderly and the knights who wanted the position for themselves."

Theon left, and found Horpe, Farring, and Potter stood outside the door. He tried to walk away with dignity, but it was still little more than a hobble. He looked out over the courtyard, and nearly fell back when he saw who was there.

There was a woman cloaked in red sat astride her horse, but besides her was the unmistakeable figure of Damon-Dance-For-Me, carrying the banner of House Bolton.


	55. Mathis II

Mathis woke from a deep sleep in his bed. He was alone. There had been no coupling between him and Cersei the night before. Today was the day of her trial before the Faith of the Seven, and neither of them wanted to draw attention to their respective betrayals. He didn't want to end up imprisoned like some of the other lovers that Cersei Lannister had taken.

Osney Kettleblack was already dead. He had been executed by the Faith a few days before, as an example of what would happen to Cersei if her trial by combat found her to be guilty. She would be executed in front of the Great Sept of Baelor. He could not allow that to happen. If she confessed to her crimes out of spite, then he may face the same fate as the rest of them.

The Faith Militant had caused problems for him personally already. He suspected that the High Septon, who led this group called the Sparrows, thought that he was involved with Cersei's loyalist group. He had spotted sparrows following him around the Red Keep during the previous few days. They were clearly here on orders from the High Septon, who didn't trust him. Maybe the rest of the small council had encountered the same problems.

There was a knock on his door then, and Mathis quickly pulled on a shirt and some trousers before answering. He found Qyburn, the one that Mace had called the bloody maester, stood outside his door. He was an old man, with a kindly face, but he knew what Qyburn could do. Cersei had told him stories of the man's cruelty. He was capable of terrible things.

One of them walked behind him. The brutish monster called Robert Strong, who was actually Ser Gregor Clegane, known as The Mountain before his death at the hands of the Red Viper. Gregor had died due to a trial by combat, being poisoned by the man that had stood for Cersei's brother, the Imp, and now he was to fight another, on the behalf of Cersei. He would take on a champion of the Faith.

He had seen Clegane fight, both before and after he was brought back as Robert Strong, and the man was rightfully feared. He was stronger than five regular men, and his armour was near impenetrable.

"Good morning, Lord Rowan. I have been sent by the Queen Mother, to talk you through the events of today, and the role that you must play in the survival of our shared benefactor. May I enter?"

Mathis ushered the two of them in, and then closed the door behind them, as quietly as he could.

"You should know better than to come here, old man. You will give the game away. The walls in this city have eyes. You don't know who could be watching."

"Oh, but I do, my Lord. The stable boy is one of the little birds of Lord Varys. He answers to me now. Then there is Lady Jocelyn Swyft, who was watching me from a window above. She has been seduced by the Summer Island prince, but only as a favour to his lover, Nymeria Sand. I will send Ser Gregor to assure her silence when we are done here, so I would appreciate my time not being wasted."

Qyburn seated himself on the edge of the bed, whilst Ser Gregor stood in the corner, silent and foreboding. Mathis didn't like how the bloody maester had brought his monster of a creation with him. It didn't bode well. Had Cersei sent the two of them here to dispose of him?

"You should relax, Lord Rowan. I have no other motive to come here than the one that I have stated. My queen wishes that you be made aware of the events of the day. That is all."

Mathis seated himself, and waited for the old man to start talking him through whatever Cersei wanted him to know.

"First of, you will visit the High Septon when he arrives at the Red Keep. You are to find out who the Faith intend to put forward as their champion, and then report that information back to me. Secondly, it is my belief that Nymeria Sand will call a short meeting of the small council prior to the trial, to discuss what should happen when Ser Gregor wins. After that, you must head to the Dragonpit, where the High Septon has decreed that the event will take place. There you will sit the high dais, with the new Hand and the rest of the small council, as well as Cersei herself, and Lord Tyrell. Do you understand?"

Mathis nodded.

"You want me to find out the identity of the opponent, attend the small council meeting, and then watch the trial occur. I understand completely. It shall be done."

"Excellent. Then I shall see you shortly, Lord Rowan."

Qyburn left then, with Gregor Clegane following close behind him. Mathis disliked the other people that Cersei associated with, and he wasn't sure that working with people like Qyburn, who had been expelled from the Citadel for necromancy, helped her image with the Faith or the people of the Seven Kingdoms. He wouldn't tell her that, of course. She was too fond of her pets.

It was a few hours later that Mathis heard the gates of the Red Keep open. When he ducked his head outside, he saw that a group of the Warrior's Sons had marched in, with Theodan Wells at their head, and the High Septon came behind them, accompanied by some of the Most Devout, the inner circle of the Faith.

He approached the group, and the Warrior's Sons parted for him, although Theodan Well stayed stood between him and the priest.

"Lord Mathis of the House Rowan approaches. Should he be allowed passage?"

The High Septon walked past Theodan, and stood before Mathis. He was a short man, about the same age as Qyburn. He was not an imposing threat, yet he commanded the hearts and minds of almost the entire city. If he told them it was the will of the gods then they would burn themselves to cinders. Mathis hated priests.

"Ser Theodan is a fine warrior, and a pious man, but he does like to do everything as if it was a ceremony. What is it I can do for you, my Lord?"

"I would ask your blessing, High Septon, so that I may hold that in my heart despite being so far from both my home and my family."

The High Septon gave him a knowing smile. The old man was clever, and Mathis didn't like the way his eyes glimmered with knowledge.

"That is not why you approach, my Lord. Speak frankly. You wish to know who will stand against Cersei Lannister in her trial. I thought long and hard on this, and then the seven gave me inspiration. Who better to fight her lies than the man that I know is seeking redemption for the truths that he has told?"

That confused Mathis. Who could that be?

"I have decided that our champion shall be Lancel Lannister, my Lord. I know him to be on the right side of the gods in this matter. May his sword be true and his strike swift, for he shall fight for our sins today."

Lancel Lannister? This priest was going to try and combat the mighty giant of Robert Strong with Lancel Lannister? The boy was nothing, and was less than nothing compared to Gregor Clegane. He would be killed within seconds. There was no doubt about it. Cersei would win her trial and walk free.

"You do not approve of my choice?"

"It isn't that. I would like the blessing all the same. Ser Lancel will fight well and true, I am sure. I hope that the truth wins, for the good of the city and for the Seven Kingdoms."

He sank to his knees, and the High Septon made the mark of the seven-pointed star upon his head with water. He then intoned to the gathered crowd.

"To the Father, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Smith, Warrior, and Stranger, I ask you to bestow your blessing on Mathis Rowan, your faithful servant on this world. Let him be true and just, and let him stand always for what he sees as being right. May he burn in the Seven Hells if he breaks his oaths and vows in your name. You may rise, my lord."

Mathis did, and nodded his respect to the High Septon and his gathered party. He couldn't help but feel that there had been some suggestion that the Septon knew something in the way that he had worded the blessing. Maybe he was just being paranoid.

He found Qyburn soon enough. The man was in his chambers, writing something on a scrap of paper. He looked up when he saw him enter, and put the paper to the side.

"I trust that you bring me good news, my lord."

"The High Septon intends for Lancel Lannister to fight on the behalf of the Faith. He said something about him being true and just, and that he knew him to be honest and guilt-free. He has the favour of the Seven, apparently."

Qyburn mused for a few seconds.

"Ser Lancel is not a strong fighter, and he knows a lot more about our Queen than is ideal. He would have had to be dealt with individually afterwards anyway, so this all works out for us. I thank you, Lord Rowan. Now, I believe that you have a small council meeting to be attending. I would hate for you to keep Lady Nymeria waiting on your presence."

The maester went back to his writing then, and it was clear to Mathis that he had served his purpose here. He was glad to be away from the maester, truth be told. The man caused his skin to prickle. He had a foreboding presence, for someone so small and unintimidating.

Qyburn's new chambers were about as far from the small council chambers as could be possible in the Red Keep. Maybe that had been purposefully designed by Nymeria.

When he got to the door of the small council chambers, he found both Ser Creighton Longbough, the large sworn shield of the new Queen, and Ser Bayard Norcross stood outside. That was unusual. He soon found out the reason. He stepped inside, and instantly realised that both Trystane Martell and Myrcella Baratheon had been invited also. They were joined by Ser Tallad the Tall, Grand Maester Ballabar, Ser Ryon Allyrion, and Lord Gargalen.

Ryon was the new Master of Laws, whilst Tremond Gargalen had been chosen to serve as the new Master of Whisperers. He was an older man, but wore no beard beyond the grey stubble on his chin. Allyrion was younger, but still in his mid-forties. He had black hair, but was starting to go grey. He also had fat cheeks. He noticed that the girl, Valena Toland, the new Master of Ships, was absent.

House Toland had always traditionally overseen the construction of the small fleet of fishing ships that Dorne possessed. They had no military presence at sea, and that had been the case ever since the ancient Princess Nymeria burned her ships. It had left them open to raids from the Stepstones in recent years, but the pirates there were occupied with their own civil war. There were at least four Pirate Kings currently claiming dominion.

"You join us at last, Lord Rowan. We were worried that you would carry on keeping our queen waiting, and there was no-one in your room when we sent Jalabhar Xho to fetch you."

Mathis took his place at the table. He sat next to Ballabar, and across from Gargalen.

"Rest assured, I would have come sooner if I knew that the Queen and her Prince Consort had decided to bless us with their presence. I cannot be so late, though. I see Lady Toland has not yet blessed us with her presence."

"Lady Toland, as you call Valena, is at the docks of the city, arranging for a small fleet of ships to be gathered, to be sent south and try and solve the problem in the Stepstones. Salladhor Saan is one of these new Pirate Kings, and he is sympathetic with Stannis Baratheon. We should end this problem whilst we still can."

Ballabar and Gargalen nodded their heads at that, and Allyrion thumped his hand on the table to signify his approval.

"Queen Myrcella is here so that she can learn the truths of governance, my lord. I think part of the failings regarding Joffrey I and Tommen I Baratheon was that they didn't understand or oversee the running of their Kingdoms. I do not want that to be the case with Myrcella."

Lord Gargalen spoke up then. He had a thin, reedy voice. It was the kind of voice that came hand in hand with old age.

"I agree with Lady Nymeria. It is important that our Queen and her Husband understand the processes of governance and ruling. They should attend all small council meetings, it is my belief."

Myrcella looked uncomfortably out of the place surrounded by the people here. She looked out of depth, and kept locking eyes with Trystane. The Dornish boy looked more at home around these people, although most of them were Dornish, so that was understandable.

"Very well. Lord Tyrell has asked me to speak with you about Oldtown. You are all aware of the events that have happened? No? Very well. Oldtown has been sacked by this Euron Greyjoy, who calls himself King of the Iron Islands and the North. We must deal with him at some point."

Ryon turned to Nymeria then.

"I believe the Redwyne fleet was sent after, Euron, were they not? Should we not just leave them to deal with the Ironborn, and offer to help deal with the damage to Oldtown?"

Nymeria nodded.

"The Redwyne fleet is waiting in the Redwyne Straits to attack. Lord Garth Hightower has written to us, telling of the death of his father, as well as two of his brothers, and one of his sister's husbands. The dead include Ser Baelor and Gunthor Hightower, as well as Ser Jon Cupps. Lord Tyrell's cousin was also killed in the fighting, along with some other nobles."

"Do we know of any survivors?"

Nymeria nodded again. It was a curt nod. There was little to no emotion in the way she talked about the destruction of a great city and the deaths of thousands.

"Ser Moryn Tyrell has sent a report. He says that Ser Alekyne Florent, Gormon Tyrell, and himself were all amongst the survivors, as well as some of the residents of the city, including some acolytes from the Citadel. Amongst these is the elder son of Lord Randyll Tarly. We should send for him, and use him to help control Horn Hill, should Lord Randyll face the traitor's block and the executioner's sword."

That caused another positive reaction from the gathered lords, and Mathis could see that most of them were just here to agree with whatever Nymeria said.

"I have sent a raven to Brightwater Keep. That is where Ser Garlan Tyrell is stationed. I have told him to send most of the survivors to Highgarden, and encourage any nobles to join us here. They may be of use in proving Euron Greyjoy's guilt."

"Now, we should move on to more current problems. The trial by combat of Lady Cersei Lannister is this afternoon. Ser Tallad, are you sure that the Dragonpit is safe, and have you stationed your gold cloaks to keep the crowds away?"

Tallad had been staring off into space for most of the meeting so far. He was Tyrell man, Nymeria knew that, but the Gold Cloaks had seen more changes of commander in recent years than was healthy, so she had kept him on for now. It was what was best for the city.

"Yes. Yes. I had- Erm- I had some men check the Dragonpit. It's safe enough. I've positioned Gold Cloaks around the surrounding area, and closed off the Street of the Sisters for the procession. Ten gold cloaks will accompany the accused, to make sure she safely reaches the destination."

"Good. I am sure that my uncle would hate for her to be attacked and killed in the street. She is the mother of our Queen, after all. If she is found guilty, however, it is up to the High Septon to decide her punishment, and if she is found innocent then she will be sent back to Casterly Rock as soon as possible."

Lord Gargalen coughed then, and then started speaking.

"What of Lord Edmure Tully and his invasion?"

"That is a problem for the Western Lords to deal with. We will support the Reach against Euron Greyjoy, but we cannot do both at the moment. That is all, my lords. I will see you all at the trial shortly."

Mathis left then, and prepared to make his move to the Dragonpit. He rode with the Tyrell lords, obviously. Mace led them, with him and Paxter Redwyne riding behind. The Tyrell girl was in a litter with her cousins, and then came the Tyrell men-at-arms to protect their contingent. He found that Qyburn was already there. The two of them met eyes across the arena, and then Mathis rode onwards, and took his place on the high dais.

The High Septon strode in next, with a host of sparrows, priests and warrior's sons behind him. Ser Theodan was amongst them, and Mathis could spy Ser Lancel, dressed in plate armour, with the seven-pointed star of the Faith of the Seven emblazoned on his chest, along with the rainbow sword of the Order of the Warrior's Sons.

He felt the eyes of the priest on him as he passed. He shouldn't be scared of him, and yet he was. He had an overly pious view on the world, but he also had a knowing smile. It was if the gods had given him the ability to look deep into your soul, and know all your deepest, darkest secrets. Maybe that just meant that he had a guilty conscience. Maybe there was more to it than that. Still, after today Cersei would be free, and that would be a victory.

Almost everyone had found their place when his queen arrived. She entered the Dragonpit on foot, with Ser Meryn Trant and Robert Strong at her back, as well as the gold cloaks that Tallad had sent with her.

She wore a gown of red, with gold trimming, and the knights of the Kingsguard stood out with their white enamelled armour and flowing cloaks. Qyburn went to Cersei's side and whispered something into her ear. She smiled. He could see that from here. She already knew that she had won.

It was the High Septon that stood before them next. He raised his hands to the heavens, and began his speech.

"We are gathered here today to witness the divine will of the gods. They will decide the fate that befalls the sinner called Cersei of House Lannister, through the given right of Trial by Sword and Battle. We seek justice in the eyes of the Seven, and honour and righteous damnation to fall on whichever side our gods choose. We respect their words and their decisions. May justice and truth out! By the father, mother, maiden, crone, smith, warrior and stranger. May justice prevail."

That caused a rousing round of applause and calls of approval from the gathered septons, sparrows, and septas. Lancel Lannister stepped forward then. There was no fancy swinging of his sword. He had one purpose, and that wasn't to entertain the crowd.

Robert Strong was near two feet taller than Ser Lancel. His armour was thicker, and his sword was as tall as some men. This was an uneven fight.

Strong started the battle with several heavy swings in the direction of his opponent. Lancel tried to meet the first, but was near sent flying by the force of the impact. He dodged the next three attempts, being pushed backwards towards the dais.

He tried to counter with attacks of his own, but even ones that evaded the giant's sword only bounced back off his armour. The sound of metal on metal rang with every clash. There was still no blood. Lancel Lannister had lasted longer already than Mathis had expected. He could not win this bout, though. Surely.

That was true enough. Robert Strong sent the Lannister cousin sprawling again, but wasn't quick enough to finish him off on the ground. Lancel managed to regain his footing, and then his sword, and when he turned, he did something none of the crowd had expected. He charged the giant.

The boy's sword swept through the air, it's target the throat of his oncoming assailant. He evaded Strong's counter strike, and cut his sword through the neck of the monstrous creature. Mathis winced, and he heard the sound of clanging, as Strong's helmet hit the floor. He heard the gasps and wails as the crowd reacted to Strong's death. Then he heard the sound of a sword striking a final blow.

He opened his eyes, and was shocked by the scene he saw.

Ser Lancel was laid on the floor, the mighty sword of Robert Strong in his back. The giant's helmet lay beside him, with Lancel trying to grasp it. Robert Strong stood over him, his mighty hands still on the hilt of the sword. Lancel's strike had done nothing to the giant.

Robert Strong was headless.


	56. The Iron Captain

The Iron Victory pulled into the teeming docks of Volantis. Victarion stood on the prow, looking out at the wretched mass of life that was one of the greatest of the Free Cities. Barristan Selmy stood behind him, as did Tyrion Lannister, Daario Naharis, and Jorah Mormont. They were a group of strong warriors, and then a dwarf, whose greatest feat was killing a man on the privy. R'hllor had truly cursed them with the Imp's presence.

"Volantis… As teeming slum of a city as you would be able to find without visiting King's Landing. We should be safe to stock up on supplies here, but we shouldn't stay too long. We can try to find any news on Daenerys. We must find her."

Of course, it was the Imp who planned their strategy. Barristan trusted him more now, after Tyrion delivered the support of the Corsair King, but still, this halfman was cursed. He should not be trusted with deciding how they found Victarion's future wife.

"I agree with Lord Tyrion. We will stay at the docks with the Corsair King and the majority of our troops. Jorah, Victarion, and Daario will take some men into the city and try to find whatever news they can."

He would take some of the Ironborn, he decided, and find himself a silver haired whore, so that he could get ready for when it was Daenerys Targaryen begging for his cock. The other boys could have a whore each, too, as a reward for staying loyal to him through challenging times.

They had lost four ships on the journey from Meereen to Volantis. Two had gone down in a scuffle with the remnants of the Yunkish navy, and the others had got lost on their journey around Valyria. Three of those ships had belonged to the Corsair King, however. Victarion cared little for the pirates that sailed with them, and was not bothered if some of them ended up at the bottom of the ocean, feasting with the Drowned God, as his brother Aeron would say.

Volantis was a teeming mass of bodies and sweat. The slaves bore the tattoo markings of their forced profession. He wondered what a reaver would have on their body. The blood of all the people that they had killed, maybe. In that case then, Victarion would be covered in tattoos from head to toe. He had lost count of the number of men that had met their end at his hands, or his axe. Maybe R'hllor would give him a number when he died.

The crowds parted for the Ironborn as they passed. Steffar Stammerer carried the flag of Daenerys Targaryen, whilst Tom Tidewood bore the golden kraken of Greyjoy. Both sigils inspired fear in the hearts of even the Volantenes, whose naval presence was the strongest of all the Free Cities save for Braavos and Lorath. Even the island cities of Lys and Tyrosh couldn't match them.

Red Ralf Stonehouse approached him then. He had clearly decided to come with the Ironborn instead of staying behind with the corsairs.

"Did you hear the news, Lord Captain? Daenerys Targaryen has destroyed the city of Qohor, and forced Norvos to bend the knee and free all their slaves. She has a dragon."

Victarion grunted.

"We have two. They follow Ser Barristan and the Imp. They are the ones that they don't act aggressively towards them. Still, we should celebrate the success of my future wife. Our union will, truly, be spectacular. Get yourself a whore, Ralf, and give the rest coin from me to buy themselves a girl each. I am in the mood for celebrating."

He and his men found their way to the Merchant's House, the largest of the inns located on the waterfront. The rest of the brothels were short and squat buildings, but the Merchant's House sprawled out, both high and wide. It reminded Victarion of how large any man looked when stood next to Tyrion Lannister.

He seated himself in the common room, and watched as his men went to mingle with the other patrons. He saw plenty of Westerosi, as well as oarsman and traders from Lys, Myr, Pentos, and Tyrosh. They mixed with the summer islanders, who were black of skin and reminded Victarion of the red priest Moqorro, the pale skinned traders from Qarth in the east, and even some masked shadowbinders from the dark city of Asshai.

It was a mix, and there were girls from every one of these places, with the exception of Qarth and Asshai. They wandered through the crowd looking for men with the coin to pay them. Most of the Ironborn found a whore to rut with fairly quickly, but Victarion stayed. He wanted a pale girl with silver hair. He would have a girl that looked like that, or else there was no point.

It took him a while for him to find the girl that he wanted, and when he did, he found that Tom Tidewood had already set his eyes on her.

"Step aside, Tidewood. The girl is mine."

It looked like Tom was about to, and then Victarion's path was blocked off by another. He was a large man, as tall as Victarion was himself, with deep scars on his skin, and no shirt covering his muscled upper body. His eyes were dull and calm.

"The Widow wishes to talk with you. You should follow me."

The large man moved away then, and Victarion saw that Tidewood had taken the whore, despite his orders not to. He would deal with him later. Instead he turned and looked at the large man that was weaving his way through the crowds. Who was this Widow that he spoke of? Who were they to summon him?

He found the large man stood in the corner, next to an elderly woman with a hunched back and scarred cheeks. He sat opposite her. Was this the Widow that the man had referred to? What was the game here?

"You may leave us, my son. I do not imagine that this will take long."

The man disappeared into the shadows, though Victarion suspected that he hadn't gone far. Still, he had his axe with him. He would be able to take that one in a fight, if that is what it came down to.

"You are Victarion Greyjoy, Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet of the Iron Islands. You are the brother to Euron Greyjoy, the famed pirate. You seek him to be killed. I am here to offer you two things, Victarion Greyjoy."

He grunted.

"What could you possibly tell me of my brother that I do not already know, widow. I will kill him, and string his head up on my mast for all to see. Balon isn't here to protect him anymore. Euron killed his defender, and I will kill Euron."

"I offer you some truth, and some wisdom. Euron Greyjoy has never been to Asshai, like he claims. He is a liar. You should never trust a crow with more or less eyes than one should have. There was a traveller. Euron ambushed him and took his wealth and the riches that he had found in Old Valyria. It is known."

That was interesting. Euron had claimed to have visted the ruins of Old Valyria at the Kingsmoot. That was where he said he got Dragonbinder. Could there be more? Could Euron have lied when he said that, and just stolen the horn from someone else? That person would have as much reason to hate Euron as Victarion did.

"Who was this person?"

"I have offered you the truths. Now you must hear the wisdom. The future is dark for you, Captain. Euron Greyjoy will die, but, when the time comes, you must accept that it may not be you that kills him. You must be willing to sacrifice yourself. That is all."

The scarred man from before then appeared again, and Victarion realised that his audience with this woman had ended. He got up, but then turned around to give one last thought.

"Anyone can talk in riddles to mask what they mean. That is Euron's speciality. You are no different to him."

The Widow turned her eyes on him. He couldn't read her look. It was half bemusement and half anger.

"I may be similar to Euron Crow's Eye, Victarion Greyjoy, but we serve a different god. I serve the Lord of Light, who frees us from our earthly shackles. Euron serves a good who would plunge us into a thousand years of darkness."

He grunted at that. More riddles. He didn't understand them, and so he left. Wandering back into the crowds. He spotted some changes to the clientele of the common room. There were men stood on the door, dressed in ornate armour over orange robes. This was a trap. What was this?

Then he felt something hit him on the back of the head, and he saw nothing but darkness.

He woke later, his skin touching marble floors. It was cold to the touch, so he sat up. He was still wearing the same clothes as before, but his axe had been taken, as well as the knives and smaller weapons that he kept concealed on his person. There was no surprise there then. He saw two other figures laid on the floor, and soon recognised them as Jorah Mormont and Daario Naharis. So they had been taken, too.

His head was pounding from where it had been struck. He felt it gingerely, but there was no blood matted in his hair. It was wet, though, as if someone had washed it. What was going on here?

"What is this? Where are we? Why are you two here?"

That was Mormont, who was sat up now too. Naharis was awake, as well, though he hadn't got up yet, and was instead just groaning on the ground. Victarion pulled himself to his feet. He didn't want to seem weak in front of their unknown assailant.

"Who are you to take us? Where do you hide? Show your face, craven!"

"If you insist, Lord Captain."

The man that stepped into the room had a slight frame, and hands the colour of pale milk. His face was red, covered in a cracking mask of tattoos of deep red flames. He was some sort of slave, then. This was not the man that had taken him, but the man that had ordered it. He was too small to have been able to knock all three of them unconscious. He was also too recognisable to go unseen in the crowds.

"My name is Benerro. I am High Priest to the Lord of Light here in Volantis. I am commander of the Fiery Hand, and I am a loyal follower of Queen Daenerys Targaryen, the Unburnt and the Breaker of Chains. I do not hide from you, and I am no craven. I have seen monsters and darknesses that you could only ever imagine."

Did everyone this twice accursed city speak in riddles? He hated them, and he hated Volantis. He had been converted to R'hllor by Moqorro. Why would the High Priest abduct him like this? What had he done?

"You three have been chosen by the Lord of Light. You all wish to serve Daenerys Targaryen as her husband. That cannot be accepted. Daenerys Targaryen must wed a true follower of the Lord of Light. I am the only choice for her, so you three must be gotten rid of."

This small man wanted to wed Daenerys like he did? That was ridiculous. He was nothing. He was a slave and a con. He would never escape this room.

"If you want us gone then at least let it be with steel in our hands."

Mormont was on his feet, and Naharis was crouched in between them, the three of them stared down Benerro, who chuckled at that.

"You think I have not heard of the fighting prowess of you three men, Ser Jorah the Andal? I would not hand you steel today. Instead I will hand you fire!"

"Run!"

Naharis shouted that, and the three of them ran from the priest. They ducked down a corridor, finding two guards facing the other way. Mormont knocked one down from behind, and Victarion dealt with the other. They stole their swords, and then carried on running.

Some of the soldiers that Victarion had seen earlier appeared in front of them. There was too many, so they turned right down another corner. Victarion cut down another man, and Naharis took his blade.

"You cannot escape me! I see all in these halls! No man shall escape Benerro and his wisdom and truths! No man can escape what must be and what has to be! I saw myself wedded to the fire! I saw myself wedded to Daenerys Targaryen!"

They could hear his voice echo through the halls, even if they couldn't see him. A fire suddenly burst up on their path, blocking their way.

"Shit."

They ran left then, and then right when more fire appeared. Then they felt the touch of sunlight on their skin and their faces, and found themselves in the entry hall of the High Temple. They ran for the door, but were blocked off by flame, as were all the passages around them. Benerro joined them then, walking through the flames as if they didn't even singe his pallid skin. He ran his long, slender fingers through them, but they did not burn.

"You have done well to escape my flames this far, my friends, but you shall not escape me again. Your kings blood is powerful, Lord Captain. I shall have it, and I shall have you as an offering to my queen and my god!"

There is power in the blood of kings. He remembered Moqorro saying that. Maybe then, maybe his blood could end Benerro's magic. He had to make a choice. That was what the Widow had said. He had to choose to give his life to help in Euron's destruction. That was a sacrifice he was willing to make.

He charged at Benerro, and together the two of them started to fall into the magic flames. Benerro had been safe from them before, but as Victarion started to burn, so did he. His screams echoed around the hall.

Victarion turned to Mormont and Naharis, who were staring at him, shocked and bewildered.

"Go! Go now and see to it that my brother dies horribly!"

He could feel the flames licking at his skin. He could feel himself melting, and could smell it happen. He could smell his own burning flesh, but he did not scream and wail. He was no craven. He was the Lord Captain of the Iron Fleet. He was the Fist of Pyke. He was Victarion Greyjoy, and he was dying.

The worm beneath him went first, and then Victarion collapsed. He could hear Euron laughing, somewhere off in the distance.

"Laugh whilst you can, brother. My vengeance will follow you wherever you flee. I will follow. I swear it."


	57. Samwell IV

The journey had been a long and hard one. There had been tears, diseases that had torn through the travellers and killed many, causing them to drop to the ground as they walked, with families having to abandon the pox ridden bodies of their beloved family members. That just caused more tears, and Sam struggled to watch. They lost Armen to a pox on their third day, and Roone four days later. Now it was just him, Alleras and Mollander.

The three of them had found a place in one of the wagons. They shared it with Emma, who had taken command of the survivors from the Quill and Tankard. Her daughter, Rosey, had died of the pox the day after they escaped. Alleras had been forced to kill a man to prevent him from raping her corpse.

There were a few others from the Quill and Tankard that had survived. Bella had tried to cosy up with Mollander after Roone died, but she had been rejected. Mollander had been nearly inconsolable. That, combined with the deaths of Pate and Armen had caused him to be sullen and silent. He was poor company.

Gilly shared their wagon, too, and the two of them had started to sleep together again. He wanted her, but he was too shy to propose such an offer with the others around them. He wasn't even sure that she would accept it. She hadn't paid him much attention since they had escaped the attack. He wasn't sure if something had happened to her in Oldtown to dissuade her from liking him. He would understand it if something had. He was a craven coward.

It hadn't been he that had saved them in Oldtown. It had been Alleras. Gilly should look to him for comfort. He knew that most of the girls already did. He was an attractive boy.

"You are very quiet today, Sam the Slayer. What troubles you so deeply?"

Sam turned, to find that Alleras had taken a seat next to him. They were sat on the front of the wagon, looking out at the train that rode before them. The survivors of Oldtown. That is what they would be called. The world would pity them, when really it should pity the poor people who lost their life at the hands of the Greyjoy army.

And he had been supposed to be looking out for signs of an attack for Garlan. He had failed there, too, and had got too wrapped up in his studies. How many of those archmaesters that he had aspired to learn from were now alive?

"It has been a long road to Brightwater Keep. I am tired of this travelling, and of the constant death that goes with it. I should be heading north, back to the Wall."

"The Wall. Yes, I think you will return there, but do not be so eager, Samwell Tarly. There is much you have yet to see in the south, and secrets that you are yet to uncover."

There was a thin, playful smile on the boy's lips as he said that. No doubt he was referring to the book that had been given to him by Marwyn the Mage, who had fled Oldtown to serve Daenerys Targaryen in the east. It had been a parting gift. Blood and Fire, it was called. The Targaryens had taken their family words from the tome.

"You want me to read the book?"

"I want you to learn to start seeing the world as it should be. Look for deceptions everywhere, Samwell Tarly. People lie. Enemies lie, and friends do, too. What do you see when you look at Mollander?"

Sam looked at Mollander, who was walking alongside the wagon, his back hunched. He looked solitary and alone. He was missing Roone, who had been his constant companion. He missed Armen, who he had sparred with many times. Those two had never seen eye to eye, yet now he was gone and Mollander missed him.

"He is alone. He misses his friends."

"Wrong, Samwell Tarly. He cries for himself. The Citadel was a home for him. He had wandered the Seven Kingdoms before with his father. He does not want to have that fate again. You see? He cared little for Armen, and Roone was nothing but a pawn for him."

Sam turned and looked at Alleras, who had an empty smile on his face. How could he say something so cynical and cruel about one of his few surviving friends?

"What do you see when you look at Emma?"

"She misses her daughter. She misses her work."

Alleras laughed.

"She misses the coin from her work, and Rosey too, I do not doubt that. Emma was a greedy woman. She planned on killing her manager and taking control of the inn. The attack cut her attempt short. I saw that months ago. You should have seen it, too."

Sam stared at the boy. What was he talking about? He had never heard Alleras talk about being able to see things before. Had this been what Marwyn had taught him? Did he have some sort of special power to look into the hearts and souls of the people that he knew and befriended?

"Now, Samwell the Slayer. What do you see when you look at me?"

Sam hesitated. Was this a trick? Alleras had been the first real friend that he had made in Oldtown. Could that have been a lie? Was he testing him? He told fanciful stories of the escapades of his mother and father. Had they all been lies? Every single one of them?

"You are not ready to tell me who I am. Very well. Let me give you some hints. Look to the sky. Look to east. Look to House Paege. Then tell me what I'm hiding from you, Samwell Tarly."

The boy dropped off the front of the wagon then, and started running further up the train of wagons, walkers, and riders.

It was another few hours before they came into sight of the castle of Brightwater Keep.

It was an old castle, and had always been home to the Florents, the family of Sam's mother. The castle itself sat upon a hill, which overlooked the source of the Honeywine River. It was a large, single keep, surrounded by walls. It had no rights to be the stronghold that it was, yet Brightwater Keep had stayed with the Florents since the days of Garth Greenhand.

Now it was held by Garlan Tyrell, after a brief spell of Ironborn occupation. There was already a small settlement of Oldtown survivors growing at the foot of the hill. The wagons were stopping, and then Sam spied Alleras riding a horse back down the wagon train. It was a bay courser, and must have been picked up from the castle. Behind him rode two men who bore the sigil of House Tyrell.

"Samwell Tarly! I did not think to see you again so soon!"

It was a familiar face that rode up to him with Alleras the Sphinx. Morras, who he had met on his journey from Horn Hill to Oldtown, was one of Garlan Tyrell's men. Sam was glad to see him amongst the throng of strangers, and was glad to see that he had survived.

"Morras! A friendly face is a most welcome sight."

"That's Ser Morras of Brightwater now to you, Sam. I was knighted for my great deeds of bravery in retaking Brightwater Keep for Lord Tyrell. I was the first over the wall. Your tales of great deeds inspired me. Come! My Lord calls for you and your friends to be given rooms in the keep. That is a deep honour."

Sam nodded at that. It would be good to sleep on a proper bed again, and not the floor of a wagon.

"Tell your Lord that he has my thanks."

"Tell him yourself."

Morras turned then, and encouraged his horse to ride on. Alleras pulled his own steed up alongside the wagon. Look to the sky, the east, and House Paege. Those had been the hints that he had been given to work with. What was it? What was the Sphinx hiding from him?

"Come. I wish to drink wine and eat like I was a noble, Samwell Tarly. It is an experience you are well used to, but it has been a long time for me. Let us go, and meet knights and lords aplenty."

It was strange for Sam approaching Brightwater Keep and seeing the Tyrell banner flying above it. He had visited here a few times with his father and mother, as it was not far from Horn Hill. He thought the fox suited the place better.

The courtyard was crawling with Tyrell men, and Sam spotted other highborn survivors from Oldtown that had been invited in by Garlan Tyrell.

He saw Garlan's own great-uncle, the sour faced Gormon Tyrell. He had been the nominal archmaester for ravenry, seen as Archmaester Walgrave was so infirm he could barely remember his craft. No doubt Gormon was angry that he had been forced to flee the Citadel, when Walgrave was, no doubt, amongst the slain.

He also spied a sombre and forlorn looking Alekyne Florent, who was Sam's uncle through his mother's side. The two of them locked eyes, and Alekyne nodded to him. Sam saw some Tyrell men trailing him, no doubt keeping an eye on the contestant lord of Brightwater Keep.

Then came another of Sam's relatives. Rhea Florent, who was the widow of the late Lord Leyton Hightower. She had been saved from the sack by her elder brother. Rhea was only five and twenty years of age. She had been much younger than her husband.

Then he was pulled from the wagon, and into an embrace from Morras. The man was taller than him, and was in his mid-twenties, with shoulder length hazel coloured hair. His eyes were a golden brown, and he had a heavy amount of stubble on his chin and cheeks. Sam saw other men that he recognised from the journey to Oldtown, but none of them were quite so as happy to see him as Morras.

"I have been instructed to take you to talk with Lord Garlan as soon as you arrive, Samwell. You can come now, yes?"

Sam turned and looked at Gilly, who nodded slightly, so Sam turned and nodded to Morras, who smiled knowingly at him.

"Does she like you?"

Morras asked him, as they walked along the battlements of the castle. It was almost a question out of nowhere.

"I- I'm not sure. She- She slept with me on the journey from the Wall to Oldtown. She has seemed distant since we escaped the Sack. I think she hates me."

Morras mused on that for a few seconds.

"No man has ever understood the mind of a woman, Sam the Slayer. We simply must do our best to not cause them more annoyance than usual, and show that we care for them. She clearly cares for you."

Sam hanged his head in shame at that.

"I am not supposed to take a woman to bed, nor love one like I do her, and yet I find myself loving her all the same."

"I never understood this about the Night's Watch. Why is that you cannot take a woman? I find men do their jobs better when they are content, with a bully full of wine, and a woman to go home to. That's what drives me to survive this forsaken war. Why would that not be the same for guarding a wall of ice."

Sam was unsure. Maybe Morras was right. Maybe the rules of the Night's Watch were outdated, but he had sworn an oath with Jon before that weirwood. Should he not honour those words? How could he do that and love Gilly? Maybe the Old Gods would strike him down as an oathbreaker any day now.

Garlan Tyrell had established his quarters in the Lord's room, which had always been occupied by Sam's grandfather, Alester Florent, whenever he had visited the castle. It was the Lord's solar that Morras took him to, and they found Garlan seated. He looked up as they entered, and indicated for Sam to sit. He did.

"You may leave us, Morras. I have much to talk about with Sam Tarly, and I fear you would find most of it to be very dry and boring. See that the rest of our guests get their rooms established and prepare themselves for dinner."

Morras left, and Garlan put away his paper and quill, before turning his attention back on Sam.

"I am glad to see that you have made it here, my friend. I heard that you had survived the Sack of Oldtown, but I wasn't sure if you would come here or head to Horn Hill. I am glad that you chose Brightwater."

"My brother would never have welcomed me at Horn Hill. I had no choice really."

Garlan hesitated.

"You haven't heard? It is with my deepest apologies that I have to deliver this news, Samwell-"

"What? What happened to Horn Hill? It's not Talla, is it?"

Garlan shook his head.

"Your sisters and mother are in Highgarden already. They are safe there. Your brother- He was killed in a tourney in King's Landing. He's dead, Sam."

That left Sam feeling empty inside. He had never got on with Dickon, but that was more their father's fault than anyones. Dickon had been so young. He had his entire life in front of him, and now that was all gone. The two of them had never been close, but maybe in the future that could have changed. Now they never would.

"My father would never allow that."

"Your father is being held in one of the Black Cells, I'm afraid. He has no say in the matter. Myrcella Baratheon has called you to King's Landing, too. I am sending Morras as your captain of the guards, if you'll have him."

He had been called to King's Landing by the new queen? How could he refuse that offer? Yet he had to. His place wasn't in the capital. It was at the Wall with Edd, Grenn, and Pyp. That was his family now. He was a brother of the Watch. He needed to be at the Wall with Jon.

"I- I will go tomorrow. I do not have much stuff to take with me. It should be easy enough."

Garlan nodded.

"I have arranged for your friend to be taken to Highgarden with her son. You can join them there when you are done with the Queen. I will make arrangements for your return from the capital, too. Give my good will to my father and sister. Our family has had too much bad news in recent days. I wish I could be with them."

Sam understood. He was talking about the death of his cousin, Leo, who Sam had watched die. He had done nothing to save him. He could have- He could have at least tried to get Leo out of Oldtown alive.

"Is- Is that all, my Lord?"

Garlan had a distracted look in his eyes. There was pain there. He wondered what the gallant knight was thinking about. Surely he didn't blame himself for the deaths in Oldtown.

"I am sorry, my Lord. I am sorry about Leo. I should have tried more-"

Garlan placed his hand on Sam's then.

"Silence, Samwell Tarly. You are alive. I am happier with that outcome than you a dead hero, and Leo dead as well. I will mourn my cousin when this war is done. I blame myself for the Sack. I should have gone to Oldtown when I had the chance. I should have stopped Euron killing Lord Leyton and his sons."

Sam was surprised at that.

"With respect, my Lord. Euron Greyjoy was taller and stronger than you. He had fiery red hair and more muscles than I have seen on a man."

That caused Garlan to look confused, which caused Sam confusion in turn.

"Red hair? You talk of the Red Oarsman, not the Crow's Eye. He is pale and slender, with an eyepatch over one eye."

"I saw that man! He wasn't at the High Tower! He was at the Ravenry, in the Citadel!"

Garlan mused on that, and then looked up.

"He was looking for something in the Citadel, then. The attack on Oldtown and the High Tower was just a means to an end. He needed a distraction. I must think on this, Samwell Tarly. I thank you for the information you have brought. I hope that it brings an end to this war and the death that comes with it."

Sam nodded, and then left. Morras was gone, and the light had gone from the sky. It was dark. It was evening, and Sam could hear the sound of dinner taking place below him. Curiously, however, he wasn't hungry.

Instead he went to the battlements, and looked out over the sprawling fields of the Reach. You could see for some leagues from up here, almost to the forests that surrounded Horn Hill. Honeyholt lay off to the east.

Look to the east. Look to the sky. Look to House Paege. The gears in Sam's head started to click, and then he slowly started to realise what Alleras had been saying. He had to look closer. He had to look at what he knew, and what he didn't know. Alleras had said his father had been Dornish. Look east. Look east to Dorne?

Then look to the sky. It was dark now, because the sun had gone down…

"Did you work it out yet, Samwell Tarly?"

He turned and found Alleras stood behind him. The boy had that same playful smile on his thin lips, and with a laughing look in his eyes.

"I think I have. You told me to look to Dorne, and to the sun. That suggests to me that you what me to think of House Martell, the Dornish house with the sun for it's sigil. That leaves House Paege, who have twin snakes on their banners. The snakes of House Martell. The infamous Sand Snakes of Dorne, the bastard children of Oberyn Martell. Of them, only one is born of a Summer Islander trader. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Sarella Sand."

The Dornish girl stepped forwards, lets down her hair, which she usually wore up, so as to hide her true gender. He saw the truth now, and it all made sense. That was why she had let Leo die. The Martells and the Tyrells despised each other. She got closer to him, and looked him in the eyes. They still looked like she was playing a game.

"You have seen the truth, Samwell Tarly. You are ready. Remember the book, and go where you need to go. You are the hope that we have."

"Where do I need to go? King's Landing, like Garlan want?"

Sarella laughed.

"Go home, Samwell Tarly. Go home."

She left him standing there then, dancing away and into the darkness. He thought. Where was home? Where was he going. Then he knew.

He had the wagon ready soon enough, and got the horse going. He saw Sarella looking down at her from above. She gave him a nod, and had that same smile on her face. He nodded back at her. Then he was gone.

"Alone again. Back home. It is the only way that it can be. The only way."

He was four leagues away from Brightwater Keep when he heard the sound of something moving inside the wagon. He got up and went to check it out. He opened the doors, and found Gilly inside, cowering in the corner.

"I saw you leaving, Sam. I didn't want you to be alone. I didn't want to be without you. I wanted to come. Where are we going?"

He hadn't wanted her to come. He was taking her somewhere dangerous.

"We're going home."


	58. Bran IV

Bran slept.

It was a quiet sleep. He saw nothing. He saw no visions of the past or the present, but only darkness. He embraced it and he enjoyed it. When he woke, he found himself under roof, inside a hall. He was in some sort of loft, sleeping on a bed of straw and hay. He could hear the sound of talking below him, but he could not get up to check who it was. He had only one choice.

He tried to slip into the minds of the people below him.

He first found Meera, but he did not enter her mind, and then a stranger, who he also avoided. Then he found Summer.

The wolf was outside. He was keeping watch, making sure that none of those dead things had followed them this far away from the Children's Cave.

Bran felt a pang of guilt when he realised that he would never sense the presence of Hodor again. The gentle giant had died so far away from home, and had served him so well. How had he repaid that? By brushing over his death like it was nothing when it happened. He had barely even cared. He certainly hadn't shed a tear. He was too fearful for his own life.

He was looking through Summer's eyes now and turned away, having the wolf enter the hall, and padding over to Meera and the stranger. He was thin faced man with hard and stern eyes. Bran recognised him from somewhere, but he wasn't sure where. Had he been a man of Winterfell?

"Summer. What are you doing inside? You should be out there, protecting us."

"The boy is awake."

The stranger rose to his feet. Bran saw him walk to a pair of ladders. That must be the way up to wherever he was. How had he known that Summer coming in meant that he was no longer asleep? This man was curious. He had many questions for him.

Then he snapped out of Summer's head, and found himself looking deep into the hard eyes of the stranger.

"I was right. Good. Let's get you down here and warm you up. I didn't come all this way to see you die of a cold."

Bran was roughly thrown over the shoulder of the man whose name he still didn't know, and was carried down the ladder. The man placed him in a seat, whilst he and Meera sat on benches nearby.

"You've been asleep for day, Bran. I've been worried. Did you see things?"

Bran shook his head, and then turned to the stranger.

"Who are you? Are you like the ranger?"

"Aye. I am a ranger of the Night's Watch. The name is Ser Alliser Thorne. I was master-at-arms of Castle Black until your bastard brother sent me out into the cold to die. I guess you have him to thank for me coming to save you."

Alliser Thorne. Where did he know that name from? Had Samwell Tarly mentioned him when they met at the Nightfort? No. It was more than that. He had seen him, in a vision, talking with his uncle, Benjen Stark. They had been talking, but what had it been about, and what was the importance of this knight that Bran didn't know.

"Where are we?"

"This place belonged to a wildling. Craster's Keep, we called it. He's dead now. Him and all of his daughters and all of his wives."

Bran was astonished.

"They- They're all gone? An entire family."

"Aye, and a very close family they were, too."

There was a look of amusement in the eyes of Alliser Thorne as he said that. He quaffed some liquid from a wineskin, and then leaned in.

"That's two questions that you've 'ad, boy. Now I 'ave some for you. What were you doing so far north?"

Bran looked to Meera, who shrugged. Had she not decided whether or not this man could be trusted yet? She had the time. What had she been doing?

"I was surviving and learning, Ser. That is all that I can tell you."

Alliser laughed at that. It was a harsh laugh. The kind of laugh that Bran expected from a dour man with thin features and a hooked nose. His laugh suited him.

"Your uncle enjoyed talking in riddles and cryptic nonsense, too. He told me to bring you here, before he left. I came, and he never showed. Wonder what I should think of that."

"My uncle is probably dead."

Alliser nodded a few times gently, and quaffed more liquid.

"Aye. I suspect that he probably is. Still, that hasn't stopped some people from passing through. We have enough food here for two weeks. I say we wait another week for your uncle and then we can head back to the Wall. It will be good to reach Castle Black again."

The three of them sat in silence, before Thorne got up and left. He claimed he needed to take a piss, and would rather not do it in front of Meera. At least spending time at the Wall had not caused him to lose whatever manners he had before going north. Most of the brothers of the Watch these days were rapers and raiders. Bran wondered what crime he had done to deserve spending the rest of his days guarding the realms of men.

"I was worried that you would never wake up, Bran."

He looked over at Meera, who had tears in her eyes. She was crying. Of course she was. That was only rational. They had lost Jojen and Hodor. Why wasn't he crying with her? He should be, he knew that, and yet he wasn't. What was he becoming?

"After losing- After losing Jojen I don't think I could have coped with losing you, too. My Prince, I swore to protect you both, and I failed."

"You did not fail Jojen, Meera. He died loving you. He never stopped. I failed him. I should have saved him from himself. I should have saved him from what he became. I failed him and I failed you."

Meera sniffled, and looked up at him. He wasn't used to seeing her this vulnerable. He wanted to be able to protect her, but he couldn't. Not with these legs that he had been cursed with. The things he would do for love, if only he could.

Did she know? Did she know how he felt about her? He had liked her, and she was attractive. Father would have approved of their union. He had loved Howland Reed as a brother. Bran didn't love Meera as a sister, though. He loved her as more. Was he betraying Jojen by having these feelings? He wasn't sure. That didn't change the fact that he had them, though.

"Brandon Stark… When we get home, I intend to take you to the Neck and show you the majesty of the forests… When we get home, I will take you to my father so that he can tell you stories of your father… When we get home- "

"I love you, Meera."

She looked up at him, shock on her face, and then more tears streamed down from her eyes. She didn't feel the same way back. She was older than him, that was true, but seven years wasn't much, and he had grown more mature since they started their journey. He had grown up. He was ready for her.

"I- I know, Bran. I see it in the way you look at me. I'm not blind. You're so young. You have the world before you- "

"No, Meera. I have you before me, and the world is dark and meaningless without you in it. You want to show me Greywater Watch, but I want to show you the world."

He reached out, and grabbed her by the hand, before showing her all that he could see, as far back as he could go.

He showed her the forests of Westeros before the coming of the First Men, and then the signing of the Pact between the First Men and the ancient Children of the Forest. He showed her the bountiful fields of the Reach, and the expansive grandness of the Dothraki Sea. They stood atop the Titan, and looked out over Braavos, when it was just a small town, hidden away from the world.

They saw the dragons of Old Valyria, and the Painted Table of Aegon the Conqueror. They saw the towers of Asshai, the great triple walls of Qarth, and the long bridge of Volantis.

They danced on top of the Wall, and watched the first bricks of the High Tower be placed, and yet still she could not love him. He knew that. He could give her the world, but all she wanted was home.

So he took her there, and stood with her before the gates of Greywater Watch. He still had hold of her hand.

"I love you, Meera Reed. I always will."

Meera hesitated. She was unsure of herself. That was also unusual.

"You have given my life a purpose, Brandon Stark. You are what I have sworn to protect. I do not do that out of duty. I do that out of knowledge of the great man that you could grow to be. I will love you in time, I am sure. I feel it inside me. You are not ready yet, and, truth be told, neither am I. I hope that you can wait for me."

Bran felt like crying at those words, even though he knew that they were coming.

"I will wait. I will never stop waiting, if that is what it takes."

Then Greywater Watch was gone, and they were back in Craster's Keep. Meera's face was wet with tears, and Bran realised that his cheeks were wet, too. Thorne was stood over him, looking down at him, a disgruntled look on his face.

"I'm not sure what I just walked in on. You two need a hall to yourself? It's getting late. You should sleep."

Bran grabbed the man's arm before he could move away.

"Is there a weirwood nearby?"

Then they were travelling. Bran was back on the sled, with Thorne pulling, whilst Meera carried a sword, ready to strike if anything came near them. The sword had a pommel of black, with a hooked hilt. The blade itself had a black sheen running through it.

They found the weirwood standing nearby, and Alliser and Meera left him lying in front of it. He wanted to pray, and wanted to talk with father. He touched the weirwood root, and then the visions began.

"That is your choice, traitor. The Wall or the block."

Bran was looking at a younger version of Alliser Thorne. He was knelt before a knight with a shock of blonde hair, green flecked eyes, and crimson armour. The man had an intense look about him. He wasn't the kind of person that Bran would cross.

Behind him stood two other men. One carried the Lannister banner. He wore white plate armour and the crest of seashells on his chest. He had a bushy moustache, and brown hair down to his shoulders. The other looked like a younger version of the first man, except stouter than the slender first man. He was portlier, too.

"I followed my brother into this war. I should not be punished for his crimes."

"You stood on these walls and defended the enemy to the rightful king. You have your choice. Choose wisely. A choice is more than you deserve."

Thorne didn't respond. Instead he glared at the ground.

"Ser Elys, come forward and do your duty. Take this man's head."

The man that wore the seashells stepped forward then, but was saved the task.

"The Wall. I choose the Wall."

The commanding man sneered.

"The coward's way out. You should have faced the sword like a man. You are no true knight."

The three men stood up then faded, as did the backdrop, leaving just the knelt man. He then rose to his feet, and a new backdrop appeared. It was a haphazard castle, and they were in the courtyard. It was snowing, and the Wall rose behind them. This must be Castle Black, the seat of Lord Commander of the Night's Watch.

The man was sparring with a man that was familiar to Bran. It was his uncle Benjen. They were being watched by another man. He had broad shoulders and a stern gaze, with a mighty grey beard. His black cloaks were clasped by a silver dancing bear.

The two of them were going at each other with intensity, until eventually Uncle Benjen knocked the other man to the floor. He offered him a hand, and the fallen man took it. They then embraced when Benjen had pulled him from the ground.

"You fought well today, Thorne."

"Not as well as you, Stark. You need to teach me that spin move you do so well."

This was Alliser Thorne? He looked so much younger than the man that had saved Bran and Meera outside the cave, and the man that had woken Bran from his sleep that morning. He had been close with Uncle Ben, too. That checked out with his story from before. Maybe Bran could trust him after all.

The vision changed again, as quick as Bran could blink.

They were back at the Dornish tower. Arthur Dayne was on his knees at the feet of Howland Reed and Willam Dustin. There was silence, and then Bran's father, Ned, came back down from the tower. There were tears in his eyes, and two women came behind him. One of them carried a baby, the other brought down a young Dornish girl, with olive skin and dark eyes, but she had the silver hair of a Targaryen.

Bran noticed that his father was holding something in his hands, and stepped closer, to see that it was another baby. Could that be-?

"Your son, Ser Arthur. He looks more Stark than Dayne."

Arthur raised to his feet as he saw the child. He stroked the babe's head, and had tears in his eyes as he did.

"Is she- "

"She didn't make it. My sister is dead. She told me, though, before she died, that she loved you. She made me promise to spare you, as you are part of the Stark family now."

Arthur hung his head at that, and Eddard handed the baby over to Howland. He then embraced the fallen knight in a brotherly hug.

"My elder brother died in King's Landing, at the hands of your king. My younger- He holds Winterfell in my name. I would be honoured to bring another brother back home with me. Bend the knee before Robert and he will spare you. He will free you of your vows if I ask him to."

The embrace lasted a few moments longer, and then Ser Arthur broke it. He went to the young girl, and knelt before her.

"My Princess, I am thankful that the Spider spirited you out of the city with your brother. I am sorry I could not protect your mother- "

The girl nodded, but did not speak, and then Arthur rose.

"Robert Baratheon would never pardon me if he knew that it was me and not Rhaegar that stole Lyanna from him. You know that to be true, Stark. Do you think to lie for me?"

"My father taught me that honour should come before all, but I see no honour in depriving a son of his father. You should be with him. He should know you as his father. He should be proud of you."

Arthur looked off into the distance of the Dornish mountains.

"What pride could he get from me, Lord Stark. I am an oathbreaker and a failed Kingsguard. I have achieved nothing. No, he should not know me. He is not safe with me by his side. If Baratheon found out who his mother was- He would kill me and the boy, you know that. No, he should be raised by you. He will grow knowing honour. You say that you are willing to see me as a brother, Lord Stark. Would you do this for me?"

The scene ended there, and then he was looking at his father again, though he looked older, along with Arthur Dayne and Benjen. They were in the Godswood Winterfell. Dayne had exchanged his white Kingsguard armour for a woollen cloak, which he wore now with the hood down. The two brothers wore cloaks of fur, like true Starks.

"You pushed her away, Ben. You owe her. You owe her and her child. Go north and join the Watch. That way you can save your honour. Deliver this message to Jeor Mormont. He is Master-at-Arms of Castle Black. He will listen to you. He is still loyal to Winterfell, even now."

Benjen took a note from his brother, and then bowed his head.

"Did she- Did she mention me?"

He looked back up, and into Ned's eyes.

"No."

Benjen bowed his head then, and then left. Bran thought he could see tears running down his uncle's face.

"You lied to him. She loved him the most out of all of you. I do not believe that she died without mentioning her name."

"He betrayed her, me, and the rest of his family. My father and brother are dead because he kept silent on the truth. He doesn't deserve to know the truth about what happened. Not yet, anyway. I will tell him one day."

Arthur nodded at that.

"What did you put in the letter?"

"He should send you to the Shadow Tower. The commander there, Ser Denys Mallister, is a good man. He will keep you safe, though he won't know who you really are. You must keep up your false identity, brother. When he is old enough, Jon will go north to be with you. Mormont will see that he is named commander of the Shadow Tower eventually."

Arthur nodded, and turned away.

"I know. I am from the North. My name is Qhorin. I am from the North. My name is Qhorin."

The scene ended again, and the Bran was bombarded with a number of visions in quick succession. He saw Benjen and Thorne sparring, with Arthur watching on from the battlements above. Then he saw Arthur standing on the Wall, looking out to the North.

Then he saw him travelling, at the head of a band of brothers of the Night's Watch. Then he arrived at a large hill, and met Jon, who shook his good hand. Then he was fighting Jon, and then he was dying at his hand.

The last scene that Bran saw of Ser Arthur Dayne was him laid in the snow, his blood staining it red. Jon was gone, as were the wildlings that had been with them. Arthur was alone, and he was dying. There were tears on his face as he stared up to the stars.

"Lyanna- Lyanna, my love- I am joining you now- I am free of this mortal world at last, and we can be together for the rest of time- I am coming, my love- I can tell you about him- About our son- I can tell you about- About Rhae- About Rhaegar-"

 _*Hi. So, this is another author note. I know that this chapter released really soon after the last Sam chapter, which saw the long awaited reveal of Alleras as Sarella. I hope you all enjoyed that. I also hope you enjoyed this one, as it is a big chapter in the course of the series. One of the questions I get asked a lot if when Jon will become important to the story again, and I hope this chapter really gave you Snowmaniacs some long anticipated answers. I also have to say that this chapter marks a turning point for this story, and I expect a lot more frantic action to take place from here on out. Hopefully, at least. Chapters may be released at longer intervals in recent weeks, which is a shame, but, sadly, unavoidable. I thank anyone who has read this far for doing so, and ask for any and all feedback to be given. It is greatly appreciated. Thank you.*_


	59. The Eagle Lord

S a good serIt was the sound of the Trident that woke Jason Mallister from his slumber. It was the Green Fork that ran underneath the Crossing, and it ran fast.

He had been asleep in his bed, which was contained within the blue and silver tent that was the home of the Mallister commander during wartime. Patrek had given them some of his tents, as well as some of his soldiers, but they had picked other things up from Seagard when they passed. Now they were set up outside the Twins, on the western bank of the Trident, with two thousand men laying siege to one half of the castles.

He pulled himself out of bed, and woke his squire, Edmund Blackwood, who was deep asleep. Edmund dressed him, and then Jason was ready to talk with his various commanders. He sent Edmund to fetch them, and sat himself down at the table that had been brought in one of the wagons.

It was too early for wine, and he wanted his mind to be sharp for the upcoming discussion, and the events of the day that may follow it. He thought about their situation then.

Lothar Frey, called Lame Lothar by most, held the Twins after the death of his father, Walder Frey. Another Walder, Black Walder, was claiming that he should inherit. He was the rightful heir, but a frightful man. He had held Seagard for a time, and Jason would never forgive him for the way that he had treated the people of his home.

Black Walder was missing. He had not set up his force on either side of the Green Fork, yet he had his followers. Where were they hiding? Somewhere in the forests? Were they watching the Mallister camp and every move that he planned?

Lothar was an obstinate man, and believed that he deserved to hold the Twins, as he had been closer to the old Lord Walder than his nephew. Lothar had proudly claimed to have been his father's right-hand man in the raven that he had sent. He had boasted about orchestrating the Red Wedding. He would never have the support of most riverlords after admitting to that.

His commanders filtered in then. First came Ser Gavin Grell, followed by Hoster Blackwood, Perwyn Frey, Kirth Vance, Martyn Ryger, and Robert Paege. These men were all knights, and they all took their places.

He trusted Gavin Grell, and Patrek had insisted that Perwyn was a good man, who was loyal to House Tully. Hoster was the third son of Lord Tytos, and more of a bookish boy than a knight. He didn't know warfare, but he had participated in the defeat of Ser Jaime Lannister's force near Pennytree.

Robert Paege was an amiable enough man, and a definite friend to House Tully. He was close with King Edmure, and Jason trusted him to desire the best for Edmure, and follow his interests here. Ser Martyn was more of an unknown character. He was a strong swordsman, but talked rarely. He was in command of the defence of the baggage train.

It was Kirth Vance that he distrusted.

The Vances of Atranta were not as respected as their cousins from Wayfarer's Rest, and they had bad blood. Kirth was the pawn of his brothers, Lord Hugo of Harrenhal and Ser Ronald the Bad, a knight of dark desires and intentions. Both of them were close with Edmure, but neither could be properly trusted, and that meant Kirth couldn't be either.

"Welcome, Sers, we all know why we are here. We need to think of a way to deal with our Frey problem. Any suggestions?"

It was Kirth Vance that spoke first.

"We should storm their castle. Lothar has barely any knights, and few in the Twins are loyal to him. If we took half of the castle then we would be well primed to take the rest."

Kirth was also thirsty for blood. He wished to prove himself worthy of his recent knighthood by doing something glorious on the battlefield. He would probably get himself killed, if they were to storm the castle.

The Twins was one of the most defendable strongholds in the Seven Kingdoms. Storming it would not work, and they would lose most of their men in doing so, leaving them open to attacks from Black Walder.

"The issue we have isn't Lothar Frey, my Lord Mallister."

That was Ryger speaking up.

"We should find Black Walder and exterminate him like the dying hound that he is. Show Lothar what happens to Freys who defy the will of King Edmure, and the craven will bend the knee to Ser Perwyn soon enough. Let us burn the forests where we think Black Walder is hiding, and the man can be burned alive along with them."

"House Paege has lands in those forests, my Lord. I would ask you not to burn them down on the advice of one bloodthirsty man."

Martyn glared at Robert then, and it was met back with full venom. The two of them bickered a lot. No doubt Martyn knew about the Paege land when he suggested his idea.

"I do not intend to scar the countryside, Ser Robert, and nor do I desire for us to become hated by the smallfolk of the region. That would hardly be a strong way to begin Ser Perwyn's control over the Twins. I will not order a storming of the castle either. It is too risky."

He looked at each of the gathered commanders in turn, challenging them to come up with a better idea. Hoster nervously raised his hand then.

"We could- We could offer a parley with Lothar Frey outside the Twins- That could lure Black Walder into a trap, and then we would be able to catch him or kill him."

Jason mused on that for a few seconds. It wasn't a bad idea, and would be an effective way of drawing out Black Walder, but it was unlikely that Lothar would agree to leave the Twins. He knew how most of the riverlords thought of him.

"It is worth a try. Ser Gavin, Ser Kirth, ride for the Twins and call out to Lothar that we would parley with him outside his walls. Take the white flag so as you will not be killed from long range. Ser Robert, go prepare your Paege men to patrol the forests where we think Walder might be."

The three knights then got up, nodded to him, and left. That left Hoster, Perwyn, and Martyn.

"Hoster and Perwyn will accompany me to talk with Lothar. I will leave you in command of the camp, Ser Martyn. I expect to not hear any reports about you setting fire to the forests. Repay my faith in you."

Martyn bowed before him.

"Your faith shall be repaid by me tenfold, my Lord. I will prove that I can be trusted."

Jason nodded and waved him away. He hated it when knights acted so formal, so as to endear themselves to whatever lord was in command, as he was here.

Just then one of his Mallister men entered the tent. He was out of breath, and panting. Then he started to speak.

"I rode here from Seagard, m'lords. We got a raven- A raven from Saltpans. Four thousand Braavosi sellswords landed there- They claim to be in the employ of the Iron Bank. They claim to be fighting in the name of a boy called Bradamar Frey. They want him as Lord of the Crossing, m'lord."

The Iron Bank were getting involved in this mess? That was a surprise. How should he deal with this latest problem? The Iron Bank would not just submit, but maybe there was a way.

"My father took many loans from the banks of Braavos, Pentos and Myr. It took a lot of money to sustain a family as large as ours, he said. I can see why the Iron Bank would be upset, especially if Lothar had refused to pay them as soon as he took the castle."

That was Perwyn. Of course Walder Frey had borrowed money. The Freys had been a rich house in centuries past, that was true, but those days had gone. Crossings had been built further downstream. There were crossings at Fairmarket and Lord Harroway's Town, though the crossing of the Twins was still the largest of them all.

"If you promised to pay their loans back, Per, then maybe they would end their claim for this boy."

"Bradamar is ahead of me in the line of inheritance. He is the youngest son of my half-brother, Symond. He is unimportant, though. My father sent him away to foster with his mother's parents in Braavos."

Jason mused on that. The boy would likely have little support in the Twins, if he had spent a good deal of time away. He wouldn't have the same amount of connections as Perwyn, or the same amount of pull. Perwyn was popular, so he claimed, and was an able knight and a good man. Would he be able to hold the Twins? Not if new claimants kept appearing out of nowhere. There had to be something that they could do to dissuade any new Freys from pushing themselves in.

"Ride back to Seagard. Have a raven sent to Saltpans saying that Ser Perwyn Frey has been chosen as the successor to the Twins by King Edmure Tully. If they do not stand down then the force of the Riverlands will smash them in battle."

The man nodded, and then left. Hoster looked at him with a questioning eye.

"Force of the Riverlands, my Lord? They have twice the men as we do. Surely a battle is what we should be avoiding?"

"Indeed, Blackwood, but they do not yet know how few men Edmure sent to the Twins. When they have found out, then we can be worried, but for now they are far away and on the other side of the river. We should concentrate on enemies that are closer at hand."

Jason then walked out of the tent, followed by Hoster and Perwyn. The Mallister camp was a small one, with the bulk of the army here, facing the Twins, and the baggage train between them and the forests to their west. He walked towards the horses intending to ride out for his meeting with Lothar, when yet another of his men ran up to him.

"Letter from Raventree Hall, m'lord-"

"Yes, yes, I know. Bradamar Frey is being backed by the Iron Bank. I have already been informed of this."

The man looked confused then.

"No, m'lord. I have a letter confirming the claimant at Darry. Her name is Amerei Frey, m'lord."

Another? How many Frey children did Walder have? How many of them intended to press their claim? Did they not realise how difficult they were making this for him?

He carried on walking then, not even wanting to think of this new problem yet. Amerei Frey was a girl. She was no real threat. Besides, Darry was on the way from Saltpans to the Twins. Maybe these two new factions could thin each other out for him. That would please him very much.

At the stables he found some sort of commotion occurring. A man was on his horse, raising his sword to the sky. Several Mallister men had their spears pointed towards his steed. Jason sighed, and stepped forwards. Here was another problem presented itself. He must deal with it, before this escalated any more.

"What is going on here? Why are you bearing arms in my camp? Who are you?"

The man laughed, and swiftly dismounted his horse.

"Lord Mallister, I assume. You truly are as large as they say. I was just telling your men that I am highborn and needed to see you, but they refuted my truths and wouldn't allow me passage."

Jason looked at the man's rags. He wore worn leather breeches, and a faded blue jerkin, with pads over his knees and elbows. He had a variety of weapons kept at his waist.

"My name is Aegon Frey, my Lord! The smallfolk call me Bloodborn, and my grandfather called me a no-good wimp. Shows him though, aye! I'm here to help a more worthy Frey take the Twins."

Perwyn stepped forward then, and pointed at this new arrival.

"I've heard of you. Father told us that you abandoned your house to go join the Kingswood Brotherhood. He said you died at the hands of Arthur Dayne. Where have you been?"

"That, uncle, is a story for another day. Aye, I was part of the Kingswood Brotherhood. Try and execute me if you will, my Lord, but be assured, no man knows these forests like I do. If you want Black Walder Frey or the bastard then I'm your best hope!"

Martyn Ryger appeared then, as if he had been alerted to the presence of a stranger in the camp.

"Ser Martyn! That was most fortuitous timing! I would have you escort this man into the camp. Check him for weapons, and make sure he is watched. I will talk with him again when I get back from speaking with Lothar Frey."

Martyn nodded, and took the man who claimed to be Aegon Bloodborn away. He mounted his own horse, a mottled black and white mare, and led Perwyn, Hoster, and ten of his best men out towards the Twins.

They found Lothar and his retinue waiting for them. He was not a pleasant looking man. He was plump, and his eyes were too close together. They called him Lame Lothar, due to a twisted leg. He was joined by his brothers, Whalen and Jammos Frey. Whalen was a large man, but with little sense, whilst Jammos was thin and calculating. All were dark haired, and all were dangerous men in different ways.

"Lord Mallister! I trust the army that you have brought with you is to escort my sister Morya and her husband home to the Twins. Your son took them prisoner at Riverrun, I believe."

"Morya Frey is being held by Lord Jonos Bracken at Riverrun. Her husband is being taken to Hornvale by Ser Karyl Vance. They are none of my concern."

Lothar shook his head at that.

"Well, until my sister is safely returned to me then I cannot even bring myself to treat with you. It has been good to see you, brother, even if you have betrayed the rest of our family."

Lothar and his brothers turned to go then, but Jason had to stop them. Black Walder could be beaten on the Battlefield, but Lothar could not. He had Hornvale by Ser Karyl Vance. They are none of my concern."

Lothar shook his head at that.

"Well, until my sister is safely returned to me then I cannot even bring myself to treat with you. It has been good to see you, brother, even if you have betrayed the rest of our family."

Lothar and his brothers turned to go then, but Jason had to stop them. Black Walder could be beaten on the Battlefield, but Lothar could not. He had to convince him to bend the knee to Perwyn.

"Lothar, wait! Your sister, I will have her safely returned to you. I cannot get Ser Flement Brax, but I can get Morya. I will have a rider go to Riverrun to collect her, and return her to you myself, if that is what it takes."

Lothar turned back around, a smug smile on his face. He thought that he had won. They hadn't even started.

"Good. Now, you want to talk terms of my surrender to you, correct? Well, I would require a castle the same size as the Twins, and a Lordship, as well as gold as compensation, and for your son and my brother here to take my elder daughters as their brides."

He hesitated at that. He could not make those agreements. He did not have the power to grant Lothar any holdfast, let alone a castle the same size as the Twins. There was only one such in the Riverlands, and that was Harrenhal. Edmure would never agree to having Lothar serve as Lord of Harrenhal.

As for the gold… Well, the Riverlands had been bled dry of resources and wealth during the War of the Five Kings. He could not give any of that to Lothar, even if it would secure the Twins for Edmure.

"I can agree toi the marriage pacts, but I am not permitted to give you any more. You will have to talk with Edmure about those."

Lothar smiled.

"Then go get him. Tysane is only eight, but I am sure that she will be delighted to be wedded to the strapping Ser Patrek Mallister. Walda is six, but I'm sure you can wait a few years for her to be old enough for you, brother. When I have my sister, and my gold, then we can talk about my stepping down from the twins, my Lord."

Lothar turned then, and Jason could hear him laughing to his brothers as he rode away. He hated wedding Patrek off to someone that wasn't of his choosing. He had always promised his son that he could wed any highborn girl that he wanted, provided that her father would have him as a part of their family, and that their children would continue the Mallister name. How would he explain this to him?

The three of them began their journey back to camp then.

"He seemed oddly confident. Do you think he knows about Bradamar and Amerei yet? Surely they sent a raven to the Twins."

That was Hoster. It was Perwyn that responded.

"He must do. Lothar has always had a quiet confidence about him. He goes ignored by some of the rest of my family, but he is more dangerous than Black Walder, Edwyn and Walder the Bastard. He is a schemer."

"Then why so calm? He has an army of two thousand at one gate, and an army of four thousand marching on the other. He should be worried."

Jason interrupted then.

"Give it time. When he has the armies here, then he will fold. Lothar Frey may be clever, but he is not brave. He will break."

The journey back to the camp was a quiet one from then. That was true until they came nearby, and then Jason could hear screams and the sounds of fighting. He rode his horse in fast, and found the baggage train soldiers fending off about a hundred attackers, wearing the sigils of Charlton and Frey. He could spot the corpses of some of his men dotted around, and so pulled out his sword and charged into battle.

He cut down a Charlton archer here, drove his sword through a Frey man there. Three, four, five, six. Men fell at his feet as he carved a path through the attackers. Then he spotted a battle happening at the centre of the assault.

It was the man from before, Aegon Frey, who called himself Bloodborn, fighting off two men who wore bright armour. Their crests were different. One of them had a red line going across the twin towers of Frey. He couldn't make out the other. He charged at the three of them, but lost his horse as he did.

He fell to the floor, but pulled himself up, and cut down the Frey man that had taken his horse fro underneath him. The man whimpered as he fell to the floor.

He then pushed on, through the mood and the dead, until he was there.

Bloodborn was quick with his swords. He blocked and parried well, and his strikes were well timed. Jason could see that Martyn Ryger was dead nearby, no doubt killed by one of these men. He charged in.

It was the younger one that came at him, but Jason knocked his strike to the side. He was younger than he had seen from a distance. He could be no older than Patrek. Still, he was an enemy of not only House Mallister, but also of House Tully, and he would never let it be said that he didn't foght his strongest for the glory of Riverrun.

He brought the hilt of his sword up into the chest of the boy, winding him and causing him to double up, before then driving his sword down, pinning the boy to the floor and killing him instantly. When he looked up, he saw Bloodborn drive his sword through the eye slot of his enemy's helmet, before then pulling it out, as the man fell to his knees.

The helmet was removed, and then Bloodborn removed his enemy's head, with one clean blow, before turning around to Jason.

"You arrived just in time. Would have taken me longer to kill the both of them. Glad to have your help, Lord Mallister. You fight well.

Jason sheathed his sword, before walking over to his unlikely ally.

"As do you. Who taught you?"

Bloodborn laughed at that.

"The men of the Kingswood may not have been good men, but they were good swords. The Smiling Knight was one of the fiercest foes that The Sword of the Morning ever fought. I learned from him, Simon Toyne, and Wenda the White Fawn."

Jason looked down at the head of their attacker. It is covered in blood, so it is difficult to make out any features.

"Who was this?"

"I know his sigil."

Bloodborn laughed, and pointed at the shield that had fallen to the floor.

"The Bastard of the Crossing. This was Ser Walder Rivers."


	60. The Dornish Captive

Arianne felt alone, despite the fact that she was being held captive in the same tent as her cousin, Elia, and that the camp was loud and noisy. She was surrounded by people, which was how she liked it, but still she felt alone and scared. These people were enemies. They were servants of a foreign king, and had no good will towards the Princess of Dorne, or her younger companion.

Their leader, the one who called himself Red Ronnet, had forbade his men from touching her or Elia, but that hadn't stopped them coming in to look.

The two of them had been stripped to being near naked. Ronnet said that it was so as to not let them conceal hidden weapons, but she suspected it was more that he had been involved in a long military campaign and had not seen a proper woman for some time. They had been here for four days now, camped in the mountains of the Stormlands, and every day near the entire camp came in to look at the unclothed bodies of both her and her cousin.

They scared Elia, and that was no surprise. The things that they said, and the way that they looked at them made her think they would rape them both, had it not been for Connington forbidding it. They were safe, by his word, but how good was his word? Elia had never had a man inside her properly. It would hurt her a lot more if some of these men decided to take her by force.

They could not be harmed. Not if Ronnet hoped to present them to Queen Cersei Lannister as tokens of his esteem, and as proof of the Dornish betrayal. Tommen Baratheon would go to war with Dorne as well as this Aegon Targaryen, who had taken Storm's End. She had failed her father, who had sent her to Aegon to see if he was worth fighting for.

She crawled over to Elia, and placed her arm around her.

"It's going to be fine. They can't touch us. They know that as well as you and I. If they harm us then they have no proof, and my father will go to war against the boy king for our safety."

Elia sniffled.

"Mother says that your father wouldn't go to war if a Lannister threatened to stab him in the eye, and you think he would go to war over you? We are lost, Arianne. We are lost and alone, and nobody is coming to save us. Not your father, or your brother, or anyone. We are abandoned."

Arianne stared at the opposite side of the tent. Would her father really not care if the Lannisters raped her to death? Would that not stir him to raise his levies and fight? Surely it would remind him of his sister, Elia Sand's namesake, and make him riled up. The Prince of Dorne would have to do something, if only to prove his honour.

She heard the sounds of arguing from outside the tent that they were kept in. It sounded like shouting, and then the sounds of hooves on the harsh terrain. Someone was leaving the camp, and by the sound of the racket, they were not leaving with the good will of Ronnet Connington. Maybe his own men were abandoning him? That would be a good sign that he would not hold the two of them for long.

"Did you hear that, Elia? Maybe this griffin lord is not so strong as he likes to seem. I will ask him what occurred when he next visits us"

"And you think that I would be fool enough to tell you? Maybe you are as thick a slut as your infamous reputation suggests, Arianne. I had heard tale of the Prince of Dorne's daughter being foolish enough to fuck a bastard, but I did not think you were fool enough to expect me to reveal tactical information to my prisoners."

She turned to the entrance of the tent, and found that Ronnet Connington had entered. He was a gruff man, who spoke what he thought, and had little fondness for political machinations, or, indeed, the people behind them. He thought himself to be a man of battle and action. Arianne thought him to be a fool. It was rich hearing him address her as such, however.

"I thought you might like to keep me informed, my Lord. What would I possibly do with the information? I am your prisoner. I have no friends that I can contact, and nobody that knows where I am. I am, very literally, alone. What harm could I possibly do unto you."

Ronnet took some time to muse on that. Then he sat himself down on the chair that he kept in this tent.

"Very well. Lord Renfred Rykker, the man that the crown sent to command this force with me, has betrayed us all and decided to ride home. Fear not, my lady, I still have enough men to protect you and your cousin. We will begin our return to King's Landing shortly. I just wait for my siblings and my bastard to be returned to me."

She wasn't familiar with Renfred Rykker. She hadn't even been aware that anyone else had been in command of these forces. She wondered why he would return now, but that didn't concern her, and she didn't care about this new lord.

"They are held prisoner?"

"My traitor cousin Jon had them seized. I have a man on the inside of Griffin's Roost. He is a sellsword, but he claims to be loyal to the crown. He has been tasked with saving my family."

So that was why they hadn't left yet. Ronnet was a family person, fiercely protective of what he loved. He could risk his entire military position by waiting for a safe return that may never happen. What would he do if the sellsword failed him. Surely he wouldn't storm the castle?

"I love my family. Do you love yours, little Princess?"

She nodded, and he laughed.

"It is a shame that your family does not love you enough to come and save you, is it not? It is a shame that your father cowers in Dorne, whilst you are here, my prisoner, and mine to do with as I will. I wonder what he would say if he could see us now. What do you think, little princess?"

"My father is a good man- "

Ronnet laughed again.

"Your father is a coward. Your aunt was a whore, and your uncle's head was popped like a cherry. I saw it happen- "

Just then, Connington started, and then tumbled forwards, off his chair. Arianne saw a large cut to his neck had been made, and then looked up, to see that Ser Daemon Sand was stood above her. He knelt by her and pressed his head to hers.

"I am sorry, my Princess. I have failed you. I have failed your father. Forgive me."

"All is forgiven, Ser Daemon. You have saved the both of us today. Pray tell me, brave Ser, how did you get into the camp unnoticed."

Daemon rose from his knelt position, and collected their clothes from the corner of the room. He threw them to the girls, and then turned as they changed. He was too noble for his own good.

When she was dressed in her awkward riding clothes once again she spat on the body of Ronnet Connington, and walked to Daemon. Elia was behind her, tears still on her face. Arianne could tell that she was happy to have been saved. Who wouldn't be?

"You may look at me now, my knight. Tell us how you have done this."

"I was not alone, my Princess. When I found Ser Garibald and Joss dead, I knew you must have been taken. I rode back to Griffin's Roost, and that Halfmaester gave me enough men to come looking for you. They helped me attack the camp."

Just then, a man entered the tent. His skin was papery thin, and he looked more corpse than living man. Arianne recognised him from Griffin's Roost. He had been the man that Haldon had sent to greet them. She had not asked him for his name.

"Princess Martell, I see you are unharmed. That is good. I may return back to my friends with good news."

"Who are you?"

The man sank to a knee, though it seemed an act. Was he mocking her somehow?

"My name is Urswyck. I am Commander General of the Brave Companions, my Princess."

The Brave Companions? She had heard tell of them from her uncle. They were a sellsword company of ill repute. They loved nothing more than bloody battles and torture. Amongst their ranks they had necromancers, child molesters, and rapers. She had heard tell that their leader had offered blood sacrifices to the Black Goat of Qohor.

"Then rise, Urswyck. I thank you for your service. The knights in my service have been killed. I would ask that you and your men escort us to Storm's End. It is not far, I believe."

"We should be able to make the trip in a day, Princess. The Brave Companions are at your service."

When she left the tent, she found the rest of the infamous sellsword group gathered outside. She spied a fat Dothraki, and a squat man from Ib. There were others. They were all grizzled and large. She doubted that any of these men had a shred of honour between them. She could feel the fear coming off Elia as she looked upon them.

"We have a new mission, boys. We make sure the pretty princess reaches Storm's End and we will be rewarded with much gold. None of you bastards are to touch her, and I mean that. Any of you do, and I remove your swordhand."

That cause some of the men to laugh. The fat Dothraki's chest bounced up and down as he did. That was an unpleasant sight.

"Stick by my side, Ser Daemon. I am not sure we can trust these men. In fact, I am certain that we cannot."

She whispered those words to Daemon, who nodded. She could feel Urswyck's bulging eyes on her, and she turned to the man, who was smiling a crooked smile.

"We are ready to leave whenever you are, little princess. If we go now then we should reach Storm's End before the fall of night."

She nodded, and mounted her horse, with help from Elia. Her cousin rode by her side as they went, with Daemon going just behind them. The ride was up and down hills, and she was glad for the horses that they had taken from the Connington camp. She could hear the laughter of the Brave Companions behind her. The man from Ib rode with Urswyck in front of them. The two of them turned.

"Princess, I would ask something of you. Did your uncle ever mention the Brave Companions?"

"He did. He talked of you to me, but only ever in passing."

Urswyck did not appear to be surprised.

"I met your uncle, back when I was one of the Second Sons. He put me in touch with Vargo Hoat, my old friend, who named me lieutenant. Now I lead. He is dead."

She was unsure how she was meant to take this. Her uncle had met many men on his travels. He had journeyed the length of the world, from Oldtown to Qarth. Did this man think that her uncle was the way into getting more money for him and his cronies?

"My uncle is dead, also. He never mentioned you specifically before, though."

"That does not surprise me. Your uncle was a good man. I have known very few of them. He looked for me, and he found me. He helped me redeem myself, Princess. I was sorry to hear that he was dead."

What was this man talking about? He had looked for him? Why would Oberyn Martell, Prince of Dorne, care that much about this one man? He had to be lying. He had to be trying to create some sort of connection between the two of them, so that she would give him more wealth upon their arrival to Storm's End.

It was not long after that curious conversation that the great castle of Storm's End came into view.

The castle sat on the edge of a cliff, above the raging torrent of Shipbreaker Bay. It had a thick curtain wall that ran around the entire castle, and the only path to the castle lay up an incline. It was one of the strongest castles in the Seven Kingdoms. You would need an entire army to storm it and take it, and yet this supposed dragon had done just that.

Daemon had to serve as her banner bearer for the approach to the castle, seen as Joss and Garibald had both died in the attack by Red Ronnet Connington. The man that came forward to greet them was large, with a pox scarred face, and a hole through one of his cheeks. He had a mighty grey beard, and wore a chain of golden skulls around his neck.

"Who flies the banner of House Martell? I am a servant of his grace King Aegon Targaryen, sixth of his name. Who comes this way?"

She stopped the procession, and trotted her horse forwards.

"I am Princess Arianne, of House Martell. I have been sent by my father, the Prince of Dorne, to talk with your king. Would he see me? I have journeyed long and far with my companions."

The man nodded, and then gestured for her to follow.

"The king has said to bring him with you as soon as you arrive, Princess."

"Then I shall go to him. See that my companions have accommodation for the night, brave Ser. They have saved my life today, and they should be rewarded for that."

She turned and looked to Urswyck, who nodded to her, a look of grim acceptance on his face. Daemon and Elia entered the castle with her, whilst the welcomer stayed outside with the Brave Companions.

When inside the curtain wall of Storm's End, she found the place to be heaving. The godswood lay to the right side, and a small market to the left. What stood out was, however, the massive, rounded tower that stood over her, casting its shadow over the Stormlands. She looked around, but nobody was paying her much attention.

She dismounted from her horse, as did her companions, and handed it over to Elia, to see that the beasts found their way to the stables and were cared for. Elia would make sure they were safe. There was nothing that she loved more than horses.

She approached the tower, and was then confronted by a man. He was different than from before. He knelt before her. He had brown hair, and a fat face, though a thin body. His face was blotchy. He was not a handsome man.

"Princess Arianne! I have been sent to collect you by his grace, King Aegon Targaryen, sixth of his name."

"Very good, and what, pray tell, would be your name, Ser?"

The knight hesitated then. He was still young. He had likely not expected her to care what his name was, but any information to report to her father would be good for her.

"My name is Bryce Cafferen- Ser Bryce- I am a knight of the Kingsguard to Aegon Targaryen, sixth-"

"Sixth of his name? Let us hope he is more like the first and less the fourth. Come, Ser Daemon, I think our new friend would show us this king that we have heard of so much."

Daemon nodded silently at that. He was clearly not impressed with this knight. Did he say that he was part of Aegon's Kingsguard? He did not come across anywhere near as gallant as Arys Oakheart, nor as strong as Balon Swann.

Cafferen led them up several flights of stairs, and then along some corridors, before stopping outside a large set of doors. There were two more knights dressed in white armour and with white cloaks stood guard. Cafferen awkwardly bowed to them, before then rushing off.

One of them was a handsome man. He was slender, with long blonde hair, and a pretty face. The other was a man in his forties. He had a grizzled face, with grey stubble on his chin, and grey stubbly hair on his head. His cloak was clasped by a golden stag. Could this be a Baratheon? Surely not. The last true Baratheon was Robert's brother, and he was fighting his war in the North.

It was the pretty one that opened the door, and then stepped inside. The older one initially wouldn't let Daemon through, but he pushed his way in. She found herself in a room with three men.

The first was a large man, with a pox scarred face. His arms were thick, and he had them crossed. His breastplate was adorned with nine yellow birds on a black field. He was hideous, although he looked deadly.

The next man was shorter than the other, but still tall. He had grey hair on his head, but a beard of red, with ash in places. He reminded her of an older Ronnet Connington, with the same pale blue eyes as her former captor.

The last man was handsome, and younger than the other two. He was tall and slender, with a lean figure. He had haunting violet eyes, and hair the colour of platinum gold. His smile drew her in. His face was tanned somewhat.

"I had heard tell of the beauty of the Princess of Dorne, but I had not believed that she would look quite as pretty as this. It is my pleasure to welcome you in, Princess Arianne."

He took her hand and kissed it gently. She melted into that. He was dashing, handsome, polite, and a king. What wasn't there to like about him.

"May I introduce you to my advisors. Ser Rolland Storm, the Bastard of Nightsong, and Lord Jon Connington, my Hand of the King."

"Connington?"

She blurted that out. No wonder this man reminded her of Red Ronnet. They were kin. Jon stood up from the desk, and walked towards the two of them.

"Yes. Connington. Why do you sound so surprised?"

"I- We- We encountered a man called Connington on the road here. He took us prisoner. He intended to take me and my cousin to King's Landing to try and start a war between the boy king and Dorne."

Aegon and Connington exchanged a look of worry then, and Aegon turned back to her.

"How then did you escape, my lady?"

"My companion saved me. May I introduce you to Ser Daemon Sand, the finest sword that Dorne has to offer."

Aegon looked Daemon up and down, before then taking his hand and shaking it.

"You have my thanks, Ser. You saved her. You have done your job very well."

Arianne hesitated.

"He wasn't alone. He had help from some of your men. They were called the Brave Companions. Could you see that they get rewarded?"

Aegon turned to Jon, who nodded curtly.

"Very well. I shall see to that. Ser Rolland, I would have you take these Brave Companions and check the area around where Princess Arianne was taken. We must make sure these men are stamped out, if they are supporters of the Baratheons."

The Bastard of Nightsong nodded at that, and then left. Aegon turned his attention back on to her.

"We are cousins, Princess Arianne. My mother was a Martell. Do you see much of her in me?"

Truth be told, Arianne couldn't see much of Dorne in the youth. He had the features of a Targaryen, but then it had been Rhaenys that had taken after Elia, and Aegon after Rhaegar. She could tell, however that this boy would be a good king, and that his cause was one worth fighting for. She would right back to her father and tell him what she had seen. Aegon Targaryen was just and fair, and should sit the Iron Throne.


	61. Daenerys III

Daenerys Targaryen looked out over the city of Pentos. It was a mighty city, to be true. There was no doubting that. It had been a shining beacon of freedom after the Doom of Valyria, but now it had grown fat from the corruption that had taken hold there. The Magisters had Unsullied and slaves, and wealth beyond their dreams, that they did not share with the poor of their city. It sickened her.

Illyrio Mopatis was one of those Magisters. He had claimed to be a friend to her brother, though she had always doubted his loyalty. He had been looking for high profile friends, and had taken a chance on Viserys. His chance had failed with him.

She remembered him as being a fat man, grown large on cheese and wine, with large gardens and extravagant robes. She would see him again soon enough. She had questions that she wished to ask him. She had accusations that she wanted to lay at his door.

The last time she had been here was when she had married Drogo, she remembered. He had been her sun and stars, but she hadn't known that yet. He had taken her that night, and Viserys and Illyrio had allowed it to happen. They had sold her off like a slave. She had saved the slaves of Qohor and Norvos, and now she had to save the slaves of Pentos, and save herself from what Illyrio Mopatis had put her through.

She turned then, and found her new Khal staring at her.

Rogero was handsome, though not as strong as Drogo. He was thinner, with a shorter braid, but younger. His skin was paler than Drogo's, as Rogero had Andal blood in his veins. She could never marry him, though she certainly felt something for him. He had replaced Daario in her heart, who she had not missed since leaving Meereen.

She must bring her Dothraki with her when she went to Pentos. She had left with one Khal, and would come back with another. That would look good.

"I hear rumours, khaleesi. I hear stories about Rhogoro. He has assembled a large Khalasar and marches it towards us. It is him, Jhaqo and Pono. Jommo and the other Khals have chosen not to take a side in this."

She walked towards Rogero, to be closer to him, and to feel his strength beneath her fingers. She liked to feel that in times that she was unsure of what she had to do.

"We should deal with him before we go to Pentos, and parade his head as we enter, to show what happens when you defy the dragon."

"He has fifty thousand men riding for him, khaleesi. We have fewer Dothraki, but with the Unsullied- "

She put her hand up then.

"The Unsullied should only fight against him if that is their will. They are freed men. They must be able to choose to offer up their lives for me."

There was a look of doubt on Rogero's face as she said that. It disappeared quickly.

"As you say, khaleesi."

She did not want him to do this. She kept him around for him to speak his mind, like Daario would have. If he had thought she was being foolish then he would have told her. Why was Rogero being so coy. It wasn't like him.

"Speak what you think, my love. Tell me."

"I do not think you should use Drogon against him, khaleesi. I think you should leave this to me and Motho. This should be a Dothraki matter. That is how this should be settled. Give me the khalasars and I will ride out and slay him for you."

She was unsure. She didn't want to lose her finest fighters, and the bulk of her army, and if they lost then Rhogoro would surely take her love's head. If that was what he thought was right, however, then that was what she would have to do.

"Very well, my love. Take the khalasars and lay waste to my enemies. Bring me back the heads of our enemies, and remove their braids. They will feel the fire of the dragon, and it shall be you who shows it to them."

He nodded, and took her in his arms. They kissed deeply, before he let her go. There was a look of lust on his face.

"Tomorrow I shall take you, when I have killed my enemies and am the greatest of the Khals on the Dothraki Sea. Then I shall show you my true power. Until then, I must go, khaleesi. Preparations must be made."

She touched his chest one last time, and gave him leave to go. She found her bed to be cold without him, and instead went to sleep with Drogon, resting her head against his side. The dragon had a natural warmth to him, and kept her protected and she slept well.

Rogero had already gone the next day when she awoke. He had taken Motho with him. The old Khal was not much of a fighter, but he knew strategy. He would be of use in winning this war. She hoped that the Seven would look out over Rogero, and bring him back to her. She did not want to lose him as she had lost Drogo.

She got herself up from her sleep, and sought down the people that she would bring to Pentos with her, instead of Motho and Rogero. She found Humfrey Hightower easily enough, and then Rakharo, Marwyn, and Arasen, who had been Red Snake before. He was her commander of the Unsullied taken from Qohor.

They rode into the city then, on horseback, not dragons. The people had gathered on the streets to look at her. She saw young girls carrying baskets of fruit, and old men, supported by their canes. There were urchins running through the crowds, and entire families watching on in awe, eager to get a sight of the famed Mother of Dragons. Then they reached the centre of the city.

The centre of Pentos was a large square, saved for games and festivals. Today there was a large stage set up, and the seven Great Magisters of the city sat upon it, with the Prince of Pentos sat in the middle of them.

Cossoma Medioci was the current Prince. She recognised him from formal occasions when she had been younger. He had short brown hair, though it was going grey in places, even though he was still only in his early thirties. His face was a handsome one, and he had a shrewd expression. Viserys had tried to befriend him, but Cossoma had pushed him away.

Illyrio was sat on the left-hand side of the Prince, a position of great power and honour in Braavosi culture. That meant that Illyrio had the prince's ear, and that he could make suggestions and offers that the Prince would choose to accept. It likely also meant that Illyrio had most strongly backed the Prince when he was chosen.

Some of the Pentos nobility would never aspire to be Prince, and would be fine with growing their family businesses, whether that be in cheese, wine, or exotic fruits. Others would aspire to that role. The Mediocis were of that vein. They had been blessed with no fewer than twelve men serving in the post within the last two hundred years. Of those, Cossoma had lasted far and away the longest. He was in his twelfth year as Prince, and Illyrio was now back in the fold.

The Prince rose from his place, and walked forwards to greet her.

"Daenerys Targaryen, the Mother of Dragons! I am glad to see that you have returned to our fine city! It has been too long! I do hope you have come as a friend!"

He helped her down from her horse, and then gave her a slight kiss on both her cheeks.

"I am a friend to those who act friendly to me and my ideals, Prince Medioci. I trust I have the support of Pentos in my war of emancipation?"

Cossoma laughed at that, though it had not been intended as a joke.

"Did Qohor not act as friendly as you would have liked? Pentos does not bend the knee to you, if that is what you mean. We will, however, support you in your wars to the west. I hope that means you can spare us the fire of your dragon."

That wasn't good enough. Illyrio Mopatis had promised her brother that he would have Cossoma support him in his wars with the Usurper and his family. He had to honour that promise now that she was at his doors. He had to support the dragon.

"I need your ships. I have three Dothraki khalasars at your gates, Prince. I need ships to take them to Westeros."

"Ships you shall have, Daenerys Targaryen. Provided, of course, that you remember all Pentos has risked for you after your wars are done."

She looked to Illyrio, who was avoiding her gaze. The other magisters were almost as fat as he was. The magisters of Pentos were devious men, Ser Jorah had told her once, and they were also gluttons and greedy men. She knew that she should trust nobody in this city, not even the silver-tongued prince. This was a nest of vipers, and a den of villains and players. They would trade her in as soon as they could, if they would benefit from it. She had been foolish to come here without Rogero.

"I do not forget my friends, Prince. Support me, and Pentos will be known as the mightiest of the Free Cities for years to come."

The gathered crowds cheered at that, and the Prince of Pentos encouraged them to be louder. He laughed as he turned his attentions back on her.

"You lack a husband, I hear. When this war is done, Daenerys Targaryen, you will wed me, as a reward for the ships I give you. That is the deal."

She stared him down. There was a wickedness in his eyes that hadn't been there before. He was almost a different person when nobody else could hear what he was saying.

"If you want my hand in marriage, Medioci, then you will have to do more than just give me ships. Attack Myr as well. Free their slaves. Then I will consider taking you to bed. Do we have a deal?"

Medioci thought for a few seconds, and Daenerys thought too. How could she be considering marrying this man that she barely knew? He was older than her, but then so had been Drogo, and Hizdahr, and Daario, and she had taken all of them to bed. He was handsome and fair on the eyes, but he was no warrior, and Rogero, her love, was risking his life for her as they spoke. She would never be able to have Rogero wed her and sit the Iron Throne beside her, however. He was no highborn.

When she thought on marriage, she had thought about how Viserys had wanted her, even though he was older. He had wanted to keep the bloodline pure, and have more monsters born to them. If the Usurper had not had his petty rebellion then she would likely have married her other brother's eldest son, Aegon. She would have ruled as his queen, and Viserys would have been sent away to Dragonstone until she bore her husband an heir. Alas, that would never be.

Aegon had been killed by the Usurper's dogs during the rebellion. Lannister, Stark, Clegane, Arryn, Tully, and Lorch. She would not forget those names, and she would not forgive them for their crimes against her own family. They would pay once she reached Westeros.

Revenge had twisted Viserys' mind, to the point that he inherited the madness of their father. She would not allow that to happen to her, but revenge she would have. She would bring those traitors to their knees before her dragons. They would burn or beg.

"Very well. I shall make enquiries into buying the loyalties of Myrish sellswords, and deliver the city to you, Daenerys Targaryen. On that you have my word. Then we will wed and I shall be your King."

She nodded, and Medioci went from her and whispered something into the ear of fat Illyrio, who looked surprised by the information he was given. He had not expected Pentos to actually have to fight, she realised. He had hoped that they would just provide ships and be done with it. He was a fat craven, and nothing more. Her brother had been foolish to trust this one with securing him an army.

Cossoma turned back to her, a smile back on his face, and his eyes calm once again. He was back to being fair and handsome.

"It has been arranged for you to stay with Magister Illyrio for tonight, and then tomorrow we can give you your ships and wish you well in your wars to come."

The journey to the manse of Illyrio Mopatis was a short one. He invited her in the litter with him, and she felt it polite to oblige, so gave Rakharo her horse to control, and told him to ride back out to the camp. She would have news of what happened the moment that it occurred. Besides, she had Ser Humfrey and Arasen to protect her. They were both good men, and loyal to her cause.

Humfrey had promised her the support of his father's house when she arrived in Westeros. She trusted that he would come true on that promise.

When they arrived at his manse, Illyrio left them, and members of his household showed them to their rooms. She didn't stay in hers long, as it was Viserys' old room. It reminded her of him, and so she went to find Marwyn, her Grand Maester.

It was not hard to find the man. He was sat in the gardens, reading from a tattered old book that he had brought with him when he came over to her cause. She did not ask him what the tome was about. Truth was, she did not care.

"Do you know anything about the military history of Pentos, Grand Maester?"

She seated herself next to him as he carefully closed his book, and placed it to the side. His answer was measured and clear.

"The Pentoshi have never been a military people. They lose wars with Braavos like young whores lose their maidenhead. They did beat Volantis during the Century of Blood, but that was more your ancestor, Aegon, before he was the conqueror, and Balerion the Black Dread than any real Pentoshi military expertise."

She could tell that the prospect of the Black Dread excited her Grand Maester. She often times saw him looking at Drogon with scientific awe, and had once found him measuring the dragon's claws, to which Drogon had seemed oddly fine. He was a wild child, and not many men dared to go near him. Clearly, he had taken a liking to Marywn, however, for whatever reason.

"When we sail, we will go to Dragonstone, Grand Maester. From there, I would have you send your ravens around the crownlands to secure me support against the lion and the usurper's younger brother. I will defeat them, and avenge my father, mother, and brothers."

Marwyn hesitated at that, and then composed himself.

"I have heard some rumours coming over from Westeros, my queen. Rumours about another king waging wars for the Iron Throne."

Another? By the Seven, how much bloodshed did her home need? Already it had faced so much. Truly, the people would clamour to see her and bow before her when she ended each of these usurper claimants.

"And who would this be, Grand Maester?"

"A boy- He claims to be your nephew, my Queen. He claims to be Aegon, son of Rhaegar."

That stopped her thoughts. Only earlier today she had thought of avenging her nephew, who had been brutally murdered. How could he have survived? No, this had to be another pretender, using the guise of her murdered family to establish his claim. There was no way that this could be the real Aegon.

What if he was, though? What if she wasn't, in fact, the last dragon? Viserys had always told her that her family was dead, but for him. Her brother Rhaegar had died on the Trident. Her father had been killed by Jaime Lannister, the Kingslayer, who broke his oaths and would be forever cursed by that fact. She had killed their mother on Dragonstone…

Her brother had been married to Elia Martell, the Dornish Princess, who had been murdered in King's Landing by the mad dogs of Tywin Lannister, who in turn had been a hound of the Usurper, Robert Baratheon. Aegon had been murdered with her, by the same man. How could he have survived that?

There was no way it was really her nephew, but if it was… Maybe she could know a family member who wasn't mad and twisted like Viserys. Then she thought of something. She knew who she had to blame for her never knowing the existence of this boy, if he was who he claimed to be. There was nobody else that would have been able to save him and support him this long, and it all made sense.

She left Grand Maester Marwyn to his book, and went to confront Illyrio Mopatis.

She found the fat cheesemonger looking wistfully out over a different section of the gardens. Below them was a marble pool, with a statue of a lithe boy with a bravo's blade in the centre.

"That was me, once, a long time ago. I don't know if I could even make that pose nowadays. Back then I would have fought with you, Daenerys. Now, well, now my battles have to take place on a different sort of field. That is the way that the world goes, I suppose. I am not the man that I was all those years ago."

She was silent at that, but went to stand beside him. He didn't flinch from his glare, and didn't look to make any other sort of conversation.

"The boy who claims to be your nephew. What do you know about him? I would warn you not to lie to me on this, Illyrio. I am not eager to see you burned, but I am sure some of your magister friends would be. Should I go to them, instead?"

Illyrio was silent for a few seconds at that, and then turned to her.

"Aegon is what he claims to be. He is the son of Rhaegar. I would have told you, but you know that Viserys would have seen him as a rival to his throne. He would have killed the boy. I gave him to a trustworthy guardian instead. They were meant to meet with you, but you did not come."

"How could I come to see a boy that I did not know existed, Illyrio? I understand not wanting Viserys to know, but could you not have sent him to me when you sent Belwas and Barristan?"

Illyrio shook his head.

"The boy had not finished his training. He had more to do before I could send him to you. He is ready now. You should go to him now."

Tears stung at Daenerys' eyes, and she wasn't sure why. She had just found out that her family was not as dead as she had thought it to be. That should make her happy, not sad. Maybe she was happy. Maybe these were tears of joy. Maybe this was her way of celebrating the survival of her nephew.

Or maybe she was upset. Aegon's claim on the Iron Throne was stronger than hers. Maybe that was what upset her. Maybe the thought that the lords of the Seven Kingdoms would to his banner and not hers caused her this pain.

She thought of Rhaenyra Targaryen, who had claimed the throne against a brother called Aegon, and who had made the Seven Kingdoms burn and bleed over her birthright, and who had died a horrible death as a result of it. Would that be her? No. No, there was one thing that she had that this Aegon did not. There were three things, in fact. She had her dragons.

"The plan was for your brother and husband to ravage the Seven Kingdoms. They would both die, of course, and then you would marry Aegon and take the weakened Kingdoms together. Viserys proved too impatient, however, and that plan was ruined. Fortunately a new war began, and so it was all a matter of waiting. I sent Ser Barristan to make sure that you returned to me safely, and Groleo, too. I was concerned when you did not, but then I heard that you had brought Slaver's Bay to it's knees."

Daenerys was shocked. Illyrio had just told her that he had planned the deaths of both her brother Viserys and her sun and stars. She knew that the magisters of Pentos were players of politics, and couldn't be trusted, but how brazen could this man be? Maybe he was not quite the craven that she had thought.

Just then, the door to the room opened, and Humfrey Hightower entered. He was out of breath, and there was sweat on his brow.

"Your grace! Dothraki ride towards the city! The Prince of Pentos has called for your presence at the gates!"

That was some news. She rushed after Humfrey, and did not wait for Illyrio to keep up. She mounted her horse, and rode towards the city gates with her white knight. Was this Rogero returning to her, or was this Rhogoro bringing her the head of her beloved?

Cossoma Medioci was stood outside the gates, and Daenerys rode to his side, before dismounting. She could see the Dothraki riding towards the city, but could not make out any banners or faces. They got closer, and then closer, and then she saw him.

Rogero rode closer, and dismounted his horse. He walked to her, his chest heaving and his body covered in the sweat and blood of battle. He emptied a bag before her, and the heads of her enemies fell before her. There was Rhogoro, Jhaqo and Pono. She felt something stirring inside her. It felt like the times that Drogo, Daario or Rogero had brought her to orgasm, mixed with the times that she had just wanted them to take her. She wished Rogero could have her here, with Rhogoro watching on, but she must control herself.

Instead she wrapped her arms around her beloved, and kissed him deeply. Did he know how much she wanted him? Later she would have him. He would have his reward for this. He had done it. He had returned to her.

That night they took each other time and again. She was on top sometimes, and others he took her like the Dothraki took their women, from behind. She loved every second of it. She loved the feel of his mast inside her, and when she looked up she saw the lifeless eyes of the men that had tried to bring her down and shame her looking on. That just made her climax quicker.

The next day she stood in the Pentoshi docks, and shook the hands of each of the magisters. Illyrio embraced her, and she had enjoyed her night before so much that she embraced him back. There were some tears in the eyes of the fat cheesemonger, though she suspected they were fake. Medioci was the last, and then she was on board her ship.

They sailed into the Narrow Sea, out of the Bay of Pentos, and then they sailed towards her home. She turned to look at Rogero, who stood with her, and back at Essos. She was leaving the home that she had always known, and was heading back where she belonged.

Home.


	62. Cersei III

Shadows had started to fall over the Red Keep, and Cersei Lannister was enjoying the freedom that she had been granted ever since her trial. The Faith had been forced to back away from her, even if the High Septon didn't believe in her innocence, Lancel was dead, thank the seven, and Myrcella had even visited her in her chambers a number of times since, like she did when she was younger.

Still, her daughter refused to relent on sending her back to Casterly Rock. The bastard Nymeria and the Dornish boy whispered lies in her ear, and made her believe that the Westerlands needed their Lady in these trying times.

Fuck the Westerlands, and fuck Casterly Rock.

Her father had always wanted Jaime to inherit the Lannister home, and his dreams had been torn apart when Aerys Targaryen named Jaime to his Kingsguard. He would never have been happy having Cersei or Tyrion inherit his beloved home. He had fought to bring the Lannisters back from the weakness of her grandfather, and he refused to accept that a woman would be strong enough to inherit.

In that regard, at least, he had been foolish. She had clearly proved her strength by now. She hadn't been broken by Robert, or by Ned Stark, or by Mace, uncle Kevan, or Stannis Baratheon. This High Sparrow was just another of the men that had tried to break her, but that she had been too strong for. She had beaten him back.

The clouds gathered overhead for her departure, knowing that it was soon, and not wanting to see her leave the city that she had resided in for so long. She was part of the make-up of King's Landing, and she had ruled the Red Keep. This city was hers, and it would remember her until it fell, however long that would be.

It was growing late for watching the sky. She had things that must be done, and people that she had to speak to.

The first on her list was Qyburn. He had served her well by giving her Robert Strong, who had fought and killed for her freedom. Strong had been discovered as the monster that he was now, though, and the Faith would soon call for Qyburn to be arrested and executed for the unnatural crimes of necromancy and black magic. She could not allow that. His role for her was not yet finished.

She found the maester talking with Jocelyn Swyft, the vapid bitch. She shooed the girl away, so that she had the sole attention of her servant.

"You must leave the city."

He looked confused. For a man of science, he could be surprisingly slow on the uptake, and not very good at thinking in the future. He got most of his knowledge from books, and was less good with people on an emotional level. He was very good at using people for other means, however, as his transformation of Ser Gregor showed.

"I am leaving the city, my Queen. When you return to the Rock- "

"I do not intend to return to the Rock yet, Qyburn, and the Faith are calling for your head. You will take Ser Gregor with you and ride for Casterly Rock overnight. No-one should know that you are going. Tomorrow it will be like you vanished, and the Faith will be none the wise to the deception."

He looked hesitant on the idea.

"Will you be safe- "

"I have Lord Rowan wrapped around my little finger. He will do whatever I command, and collect information from wherever I ask it. I have Ser Meryn on the Kingsguard who is still loyal to me. I will be fine for now, and I will deal with all my foes before I return."

Qyburn nodded, though she sensed reluctance in him as he walked away from her. Good. The last thing that she needed was more problems with the Faith, and them coming after her and her followers even more. If they had started to look into Qyburn and Robert Strong then who knows what they might have discovered. There were many truths that she would rather not be outed.

Robert Strong had been removed from the Kingsguard soon after the trial. He had been replaced by Ser Rayman Hogg, the third son of some landed knight from the Crownlands, who were vassals of the Hayfords. He was a strong looking man, but slow and dumb, with a thick brown beard. He was too young to be able to understand the game of politics in the capital, and had been a rushed appointment.

Another knight had been called to the castle to serve, but he was journeying to them from Dorne, and was yet to arrive. His name was Nymeron Jordayne, named for the Rhoynish bitch that the Dornish worshipped as a god. She knew nothing of the boy, though he was, presumably, just another man who would do whatever Doran Martell told him to do, just like the members of the small council that he had named.

Lord Gargalen and the Allyrion knight were not smart men in of themselves, and were instead here as they thought of a similar mind to the Prince of Dorne. Both men were averse to war, and wanted to preserve the peace that Dorne had known whilst the rest of the Kingdoms bled. That was their purpose.

There were those in Dorne that called for war, she knew. The Yronwoods would always oppose the Princes of Dorne on whatever they decided. The Ullers craved revenge for the fool Oberyn, who had died at the hands of Ser Gregor. The Ullers were mad fools. The Yronwoods were obsessed with a feud from hundreds of years before. Still, they were obsessed fools that she could use to her advantage.

If she could instigate an uprising against the infirm and incapable Doran Martell, then she could seize on the power vacuum. How strong a politician would the bastard girl be without her uncle giving her instructions? She would be unable to stop her from taking the true power in the city and the Red Keep, and then she wouldn't have to be forced into returning to Casterly Rock. She could remain in the capital with Myrcella.

All she needed to do was plant an idea into the head of Lord Yronwood. Still, now that Pycelle was dead, there was little chance of her being able to send a secret raven. The new Grand Maester was a Tyrell man, and she didn't want the large oaf to learn the truth of what she was doing, even if he had no love for the Martells of Sunspear either.

He may want to support her in disrupting the Dornish ruling house, but she still couldn't trust him. House Tyrell were upjumped stewards, and were an infection on this city, whether it was Mace, his bitch daughter, his vapid wife, his cunt mother, or his son, who had preferred bedding boys to girls. She was glad that he was dead, but he was just the first amongst others. She would purge Westeros of the golden rose once and for all, whether with her own hands or with swords or with fire. House Tyrell would die for opposing her and causing Tommen's death.

Myrcella had cried to her about the deaths of her brothers. She had never been close to Joffrey, but her and Tommen had been as close as siblings should be, if not as close as she had been with Jaime at their age. The girl needed to learn that people died in the game of thrones. She had loved Tommen, but he had been too weak to be a good king, and had been too weak to live long in this world. He was bound to die sooner or later. That was how the world worked.

"Lady Cersei, your presence has been requested in the small council chambers."

She turned, and found the ebony skinned Summer Island prince Jalabhar Xho standing before her. He had traded in his usual flamboyant dress for a simple jerkin of orange and red. The bastard had taken him as her paramour, and he was embracing his new connections to House Martell. He felt that by getting close to the girl she would take his home back for him, but the Martells would not hold power that long. This one had chosen the wrong side.

"Does the Dornish bastard intend to insult me more than she already has? Why should I go to her on a whim so that she may ridicule me?"

"Lady Nymeria has not called for you, Lady Lannister. The Queen has asked for your presence on the council for today."

Myrcella has finally stood up to her crooked advisors? Good girl. She was seeing the light then. She could keep her Dornish boy, if she wanted, provided she reinstalled Cersei as Queen Regent.

She found the rest of the small council already gathered when she arrived, with the exception of Valena Toland, the new Master of Ships, who had sailed south the day before to put an end to the problem of Aurane Waters raiding the Dornish and Stormlander coasts. It was a load of bother for no reward. Who cared about Dornish peasants?

She seated herself down on the left hand side of Myrcella, who smiled at her. She was so innocent. She didn't understand how the Dornish were using her. When she looked at Trystane she saw the boy that she loved, but she was just a pawn in the boy's father's game. She should learn to know better, or else she may end up like Tommen.

She looked to the rest of the small council then. Ryon Allyrion had black bags underneath his eyes, whilst Gargalen had clearly been dressed in a hurry. Tallad the Tall looked more asleep than awake.

"We have bad news, on all fronts, my lords and ladies. Houses Bolling, Fell, Grandison, Penrose, and Morrigen have declared themselves in favour of the dragon at Storm's End, and we have lost contact with both Ronnet Connington and Renfred Rykker. I fear they have both been slain."

Ronnet Connington was a fool. His loss meant little to her. Renfred Rykker was young, with a boy of five namedays as his heir. His death left Duskendale as a weak point in the Crownlands. The town wasn't that important, though, so she would give no further thought on the matter.

"On top of that, Selwyn Tarth has declared for the boy. He has the ships that he needs now. If he wanted to blockade Blackwater Bay then he could."

Tarth. It was little more than a rock in the middle of the sea. Robert should never have allowed them to hold as much naval power as they did. He should have quashed them, and shown them that they were vassals, but he had been too weak.

"Also, I bring deeply sad news. The Redwyne fleet has been beaten. Half their ships have been sunk, and Horas Redwyne has gone down with his. The other brother, Hobber, has been taken as a prisoner by the Ironborn. We no longer have the naval power to defeat Euron Greyjoy."

Lord Gargalen spoke then. The way he did it reminded Cersei of Pycelle. It sounded bumbling and foolish. He was an old man, after all.

"Forgive me, Lady Hand, but is there not a fleet of ships at Lannisport? Could they not be sent to ambush Euron Greyjoy on his return to Pyke, when he eventually returns, that is."

"Yes, Lord Gargalen. I think that is the best cause of action. I leave the planning to the Lady of the Rock, however. She will return to her home soon, and plan our victory. Do you have any objections, Lady Cersei?"

The bitch. She had planned this from the start. She had planted that idea in the head of the foolish old lord. It had all been a setup to reinforce her leaving the capital. Bitch. Bitch. Bitch.

"I see no reason to object, bastard. I will deliver my daughter more of a victory than you could give over this Targaryen boy, and more of a victory than the Tyrells could give over this upjumped corsair, and prove the worth of House Lannister to the throne and this regime."

"Excellent. Then when do you intend to leave?"

Cersei hesitated.

"In a month."

Nymeria smirked at that, and tapped the table lightly, as if pondering something, but Cersei knew that a decision had already been reached. She tried to meet Lord Rowan's eyes, but he was intently staring at the table, avoiding her gaze. He knew. He knew and he hadn't warned her before that summer islander came for her. Traitor.

"Euron Greyjoy could easily have returned to Pyke in a month, and then our chance is gone. I would think it better if you leave within the fortnight, so as to ensure that you reach Casterly Rock in time to plan this attack, and secure this mighty victory that you have just promised for the crown."

Bitch. Bitch. Bitch.

"You can still come to visit, mother, but Lady Nymeria says that we need a figurehead in the west, to deal with the Greyjoys and the Tullys. I will miss you."

Sweet Myrcella. She had no idea how easily she was being played by the Dornish bastard. She was no lady. She was nothing more than a baseborn bitch.

"I am glad that has been sorted. We can adjourn then, and meet up when more has come to us to be discussed. I am glad that you could join us Lady Lannister. You have no idea what kind of weight is off my mind knowing that you will be dealing with Euron Greyjoy for us."

She should take the Greyjoy cunt as her husband, and ravage Dorne like the Young Dragon did in his conquest. She wouldn't try to conquer it, though, she would destroy and burn and rape until there was not a single Dornishman left alive that could oppose her, and until all of Oberyn Martell's prized bastard whelps were as dead as he was.

She left the room quickly, seeing that Myrcella was more interested talking with the bastard and Trystane over her. She didn't go to her quarters, though. She went to the chambers belonging to Mathis. She needed him now more than ever. She needed her plan to work, and for it to work fast. She had to stop the rot of the regime that her family had established and fought for before she left the city. She would do her father justice.

She was already in his rooms when Lord Rowan returned. He was quick, so he must have come here straight from the meeting. She was sure that he truly was her puppet, and that he wasn't spying on her for the Tyrell oaf. She had made Qyburn follow him, and he had noticed nothing out of the ordinary.

There was a stressed look on his face as he entered. Her presence caught him by surprise, and he closed the door quickly.

"Why are you here?"

That was in a hushed whisper. Was there somebody outside that he didn't want to hear?

"I'm here for you."

She grabbed him by the shirt and threw him onto the bed, before crawling on top of him, and kissing him on the neck, pinching at his skin, as she knew that he liked that. He tore her dress away from her, and placed his hands firmly on her arse, as she inserted his cock into her own opening. She rode him hard. He loved it. She could tell. He was better at this than Robert, but he was no Jaime. There wasn't the same connection.

She brought him to climax twice, and then rolled over beside him. There was a musky smell in the room. Whoever had been at the door must have left by now, as it had been more than an hour since they started. Who knew, though. Maybe Mathis' anonymous friend was just more patient than most people in King's Landing.

"Why?"

She turned to look at him. There was a questioning look on his face. He was always so cynical. Why couldn't he just believe the lies that she fed him first time? Why did he always need convincing?

"I was craving what you have between your legs, my Lord. I wanted to feel it-"

"Do not lie to me, Cersei. I am no fool. Why?"

She sighed. She should have seduced someone more gullible. Allyrion, maybe, or Tallad the Tall. He was a lackwit fool. Mathis just has an aura around him. He was more attractive than the other two, as well.

"I have a plan. I need your help."


	63. The Forgotten Man

The prisons at Pyke were cold and wet. The stone floors were rough, and carved into the island itself, instead of being part of the castle above the ground. These prisons had been here when the Greyjoys had discovered the castle many generations before. The Seastone Chair had been, too. They were where the Drowned God had his halls before he went below the sea. He had left it for the Greyjoys, as he knew that they would rule over the Iron Islands.

Vickon Greyjoy had been given dominion over the Iron Islands by the first of the dragon kings. That wasn't the old way, but the Greyjoys had held them ever since, facing rebellions from some of their more contentious subjects every now and again. The Volmarks had always caused problems, as had the Goodbrothers and the Drumms. They had always counted on the Harlaws, Blacktydes and Merlyns to support them.

The old way of the Iron Islands had lived on through the Greyjoys. They had preserved it. Dalton Greyjoy had kept it going whilst the dragons danced their wars. Dagon Greyjoy had raided the Reach, Westerlands and the North. Balon had been a true Ironborn king. He had stood for the old way and kept their traditions, when Quellon, their father, had been keen to get rid of them. Balon had been pious and good.

He had been betrayed, though. Someone had tried to kill him. He had thought it was Euron at first. The Crow's Eye had been thrown into exile by Balon. He had reason to want him dead. Would Euron have committed the crime of kingslaying? Yes, but did he have no love for Balon.

The two of them had been close when they grew up. They had sailed together in the Stepstones, and Balon had helped Euron the first time that he climbed the Flint Cliffs. Had Euron forgotten all of this when he threw Balon into the broiling sea below Pyke? Had he remembered, but not cared?

The Goodbrothers were followers of the old way, even if they held their seat too far from the sea, and did not have their sons drowned properly. The Drumms had pushed a claim at the Kingsmoot, he remembered. Had it been Dunstan Drumm that had killed Balon? He would have thought the Volmarks innocent of the crime, as Maron was young and had not stood, but no man was ever wholly innocent in situations such as this. Aeron knew that better than most.

Innocence was a lie. It was a concept created by the Greenland religions. Their seven gods said that those who lived their lives in innocence would live on after death. That was not true.

The only way to live on after you were gone was to follow the old way and then feast in the halls of the drowned god. Balon would be there now, with his sons, Rodrik and Maron, and their ancestors, the Red Kraken, Dagon the Damned. When would he have the chance to join them, and feast in those watery halls as a loyal servant of his god?

Asha has visited him just three times since she had taken him prisoner and accused him of murdering Balon. The second time she had just watched him through the bars of his cell. The third she had fed him bread and water, and told him the news of the Sack of Oldtown, and the defeat of the Redwyne ships in the Redwyne Straits. Euron had won. He had won two victories that would cement the loyalty of the Ironborn to him. He would always be their victorious king.

That had been a few days ago. Since then he had been fed once, the day after, but there had been no sight of any servants or more drink since then. His throat was dry, and he craved the touch of saltwater on his skin, stinging in his cuts and caressing his bruises. The Drowned God called out to him, but his niece had made it so that he could not answer. She had lied to him, and kept him locked away here now. She must now that he didn't have it in him to murder Balon. He had loved Balon.

He had loved Urrigon, too, however, and that had ended with him dying. Maybe Aeron's love was just a cursed thing. Maybe all the brothers that he loved would die, and those that he didn't would live. Maybe that was Asha's game.

He closed his eyes, and he could almost hear Euron's mocking laughs rack through his head. His words were soft, but covered in malice and treachery. The Crow's Eye couldn't be trusted. He was devious and monstrous. He was morbid and horrid, twisted in the dark and made into a monster.

"I looked to see you amongst our niece's ragged crew, brother. I did not see you. I wondered where she was keeping her pet. These surroundings are most fitting."

It was almost as if he were here.

"She fled when she heard that I was returning home. I scare her, brother. Do I scare you, too? Does the thought of me at the door make you wince, even now? Or have you learned to like the feeling? Do you stroke yourself to the thought, when your god isn't watching?"

No. No, not the hinge. Not Euron. He could hear Urrigon and his screams now. No-one had come. No-one had helped them when Euron slipped in. He was stronger than them. He had forced himself onto them. He had made it normal, but, even now, the door hinge… That was his nightmare. That was what scared him more than anything.

"I've moved on from you, brother. I don't need you for that any more. I have seen the truth. I have seen the future and the past. I know things that no man should be entitled to know. I see things that no man should ever be able to see. I have been shown the truth."

Aeron opened his eyes then, and fell back when he saw him at the bars to his cell. There was Euron, watching him, a malicious smile on his face. Had he been there the entire time? Had he been tricked into thinking it was some sort of apparition talking with him, when in fact it was the monster that he most feared?

"Do I scare you, brother? Answer me."

Aeron pulled himself together, and rose for the floor.

"You are a demon. The Storm God sent you to test me. I sent you to test my piety!"

Euron laughed at that, and then grabbed the bars with his right hand. It looked like a firm grip. There was an intensity in his eye, and his breathing deepened.

"I feel like I never stop having this conversation with you, brother. I am no test. I am the godliest man this world has ever known! I am no pawn of the storm god. I am the storm god incarnate! I am chaos and misery, but also joy and hope! The Ironborn will live on through me! Through you, or Balon, or Victarion or Asha there was only death! I am the last storm that this world will ever see!"

A chilling wind passed through the room then, which shouldn't have been possible. They were far underground.

Euron opened his cage and stepped in. It was a careful step, and measured. Aeron backed away, but Euron kept advancing, and soon he was pressed against the back wall, and still Euron kept coming. His breathing was even deeper, as he grabbed Aeron by the throat, and he pulled out a knife.

"I hear what they whisper, brother. I hear what your Drowned Men cry out. They say that I killed Balon, that I will kill you and Asha, too. I mean you little harm, brother, and I did not touch Balon. That is the truth, from one godly man to another."

"You- You killed brother Balon, and you intend to kill me here. Why else would you come with a knife? You intend for me to disappear."

Euron shook his head, and a wicked smile appeared on his face.

"I intend for you to learn what happens when you wrong me, Aeron. I could not have Asha, so I will show you. You will show the Iron Islands your shame. That will be the shame of the man that defies their chosen king."

He put the knife at Aeron's throat, and pulled it across, but not slitting his throat, but instead cutting away his hair. He had not shaved since the Drowned God had shown him the truth. No. No. No, Euron could not do this to him. He would rather die than have himself shamed like this. He would not be left naked. He would not be shamed.

Soon enough, however, it was all gone. Aeron sank to his knees, and felt his head and chin. Gone. His faith had left him. Euron had taken even that. He would take everything if he could. He would take everything from him. He had taken Balon, and now he would take this, too.

He looked up, and Euron stood above him. There was a pile of hair around them, and Euron turned away from him. Two men stepped into the room. The first of them was mighty tall, with flaming red hair and a fiery red beard. The Red Oarsman, Aeron recognised. The other was small and thin, with pockmarks on his face. That was Left Hand Lucas Codd. These were both men that had supported Euron at the Kingsmoot. They were loyal to him.

"Take my brother to the Great Hall. Parade him in front of those gathered there. They will see his shame, and see what defiance and pride did for him. Then take him up to his chambers. He has happy memories from there. Lock him in. I shall see him again later."

Euron brushed past the two men, but then Codd called out to him.

"What would you have us do with the maid."

Euron turned. There was an evil glint in his eyes as he did.

"She is no maid anymore, Lucas. Take her and my beloved Falia to my room. I would see them later on, too."

Euron cackled as he left, and Lucas Codd and the Red Oarsman roughly manhandled Aeron and dragged him from the floor. His feet kept hitting against the stairs as they climbed, so they were too sore for him to walk by the time they reached the top. It was a short walk from there to the Great Hall of Pyke.

The room was crowded, though the Seastone Chair was empty. The Red Oarsman threw him to the ground, and started circling him, whilst Lucas Codd called out to the gathered captains and nobles.

"Here is Aeron Damphair. He who called the Kingsmoot won by King Euron! He who crowned King Euron in the saltwater of Old Wyk! Since then, he has defied our chosen king! Look on his shame, and fear the wrath of the Driftwood King! This shame shall be yours, should you defy him like his brother has!"

Aeron could feel his nakedness showing. His head was shaved and his body was open. He could see familiar faces in the crowd.

There was Rodrik Harlaw, Balon's good-brother, stood with Raymund Sunderly and Dunstan Drumm. There was Bralon and Blind Beron Blacktyde, stood with the young Lord Blacktyde and Lenwood Tawney. Harras Harlaw was slumped against the wall, whilst his cousin, Hotho, stood with Jon Myre, Kemmett Pyke, and Lord Saltcliffe. They were Euron's men, and laughed at his shame and his nakedness.

"We have seen enough of this, Codd. Take the Damphair away."

That was the Reader of Harlaw, who had stepped forward and out of the crowds. He was a pleasant man, but no true Ironborn. What was a true Ironborn? Euron's knife had caused Aeron to start questioning his own beliefs in all of himself, the Drowned God, and the Old Way.

"We have brought him here on the will of King Euron Greyjoy, Reader. Would you defy him so openly? Mayhaps I should escort you down to the cell that I have just brought the Damphair from!"

He heard the sound of steel being drawn, and then Harras Harlaw was stood by his cousin's side, the black rippled blade of Nightfall already drawn.

"Try, and it will be your blood spilled in these halls, Codd. I don't fear either of you, though you should fear me. Do you wish to dance?"

Lucas Codd looked unsure of himself. He was a capable swordsman, but not of the same renown as Ser Harras. Pinchface Jon Myre stepped forward then.

"It is time that we wiped out all those Harlaws that do not properly bend the knee to our king. The Reader openly opposes him, and two of his cousins support him in that act. His uncle sails with the traitor bitch! We should just kill these three here!"

"Blacktyde stands with Harlaw, Myre."

Bralon Blacktyde was the next to stand forward then, followed by Lenwood Tawney, and then Lords Sunderly and Merlyn.

"House Volmark will die the day that we take our orders from a Myre. We stand behind Lord Rodrik in this!"

Maron Volmark stepped forward, too, with young Lord Blacktyde by his side, a boy of five years, and with Lord Drumm, and a rather reluctant Lord Goodbrother, too. Jon Myre was forced into backing down.

Lucas Codd had gone for his own weapon, and Aeron noticed that Hotho Harlaw and Lord Saltcliffe had both disappeared. Neither of them wanted to be involved in a fight, then.

The Red Oarsman grabbed him then, and pulled him to his feet, exposing his full nakedness to the gathered captains. As he was removed, he saw the Reader talking with his cousins, and Bralon Blacktyde glaring at Jon Myre, and then he was left.

His feet hurt even more by the time that he had been dragged up the many steps to his childhood chambers. He was left alone then, in the middle of the floor. He was unable to get to his feet, as they were numb, and he just fell back to the floor. It wasn't necessary anyway. It was not long after that when Euron returned.

He had changed from before, and now he wore entirely black. He could have been hidden by a shadow, he was that covered. He had a smile on his thin lips as he stood above Aeron, looking down on him, as he always had.

"I hear you made quite the impression, brother. Lord Rodrik intended to sail away and find his niece. He will think twice about that now, I would think, else he will suffer the same shame as you, and I shall destroy his family, too. The only reason I didn't destroy yours is that I am all you have left and, well, I am not one for killing myself."

"V- Victarion- "

Euron laughed his evil laugh at that. What did he find so amusing?

"Victarion is dead, brother. He tried to betray me, and he failed. He died. All our brothers are dead. Balon. Victarion. Robin. Urrigon."

Aeron winced at the accusing manner of the last name. Euron knew that he blamed himself for Urrigon's wounds. It had been their stepmother and her maester that had killed him, though. Aeron hadn't made them treat him with needles and poultices. That was them. He was innocent. The Drowned God decreed it.

Victarion. How could he be dead? He was a bull of a man. He was loyal to their Drowned God. Why would the god they shared spare Euron but claim Victarion, who should have seated the Seastone Chair? What foul play was this? What was his god's plan?

"You look thirsty, brother. I would satiate that thirst. Drink."

Euron handed him a goblet. It was a deep blue colour, and looked the same texture as water. He did not want to drink from his brother's poisoned chalice. He resisted, but his imprisonment had left him weak, and Euron had always been stronger than him. He forced the liquid into his mouth. It tasted like ink and raw meat. He wanted to spit it out, but Euron wouldn't let him. He forced him to swallow, and then the taste was replaced by salted meats and wine from the Arbor, as well as fish and saltwater. There was something else, too. His brother's seed.

Then he was gone from the room, and surrounded by shadows and darkness. He saw a light, and he walked towards it. He was in a cave. The walls were covered in white roots that twisted and tangled over one another. He found his way to a main cave and inside he found a dead crow. The bird was no ordinary crow, though, for it had three eyes.

He got closer to it, and went to touch it. It awoke then, and flew away. Aeron followed it. What was the meaning of it? That bird had been dead-

Then he was in another room, and the crow had landed on the shoulder of a man who was seated on a throne made out of the twisting roots. It was his brother. He was without his eyepatch, and one of his eyes was blood red. He laughed, and then he was sat on the Iron Throne, and then the Seastone Chair. There was a man stood beside him. The bloody mummer.

Then all three were gone, and instead he saw a blue rose frozen in a wall of ice. The rose was dead, and all its petals nearly gone. Then the wall began to melt, and the head of the rose was free. As it touched the sunlight again it started to grow and return to life. He reached out to touch it, but he could not.

"What is dead can never die."

He turned, and saw Euron walking towards him. His brother's face was a mask of pure delight and joy. Was this the real him? How was he in his head?

"Your mind is an amazing thing, brother. I need it. I crave what you possess. I need it to send out the call. You have done what I require, and now shall see what the future holds for you and your beloved Drowned God."

Euron's laugh echoed in a new scene. He was stood on a battlefield. Strewn out before him were the bodies of the fallen. He saw a pale child and a black goat. He saw a lady wielding a spear, and a stone cow fallen near a mighty horse. There was a hooded stranger, and a merman king. Then there was the Drowned God, fallen besides a god of flames and a river goddess. He knelt by his lord. What had Euron done? What did this mean?

Then he looked up, and he saw the back of a queer being. Its flesh was as pale as milk, and it wore armour that had masked it from sight before. It was no wonder that he hadn't noticed him. He was humanoid in figure, and was staring off into the distance. Aeron got up and went closer, as if to touch it. He leaned out, his hands outstretched, to grasp the thing by the throat and wring whatever life it had from its icy body.

"I wouldn't do that if I was you, brother."

Suddenly the thing turned, and Aeron realised it had the face of Euron, but instead of his brother's eyes these were as blue as ice and as cold, too. They shone like stars, yet chilled him to the core. What was this? What had Euron become?

"You've seen enough to know my power, brother. Do not trifle with me again, or I will not show you the mercy of living. I want you to see the world that I create. I want you to experience it."

With those words the vision faded, and Aeron was back on the cold, hard floor of his old childhood rooms. Euron had gone, though his laughter still echoed in Aeron's mind. What had he just seen? What was Euron planning? Darkness and despair was all that was coming.

Aeron lay in his rooms, in the dark and the cold, and he wept.


	64. Sansa IV

She could feel his hands on her body even now, even as they rode. He was behind her, with his hands on her hips, or her breasts, or sneaking under her clothes and inside her. Every night he took her at least twice, oftentimes more than that, in whatever style he wanted. Sometimes it was from behind, whilst others he would force her to look into his eyes as he released inside her. He had hard eyes. He glared at her as he took her. She was sure that men weren't supposed to do that.

She had endured the tortures of Joffrey, and the shame that she had felt at that, but he had never taken her and raped her like Ser Shadrich.

She thought of the stories that her mother or Old Nan had told her when she was younger when he wasn't touching her. They were stories of gallant knights, brave lords and good kings, but they had been lies. They had been lies.

There was no such thing as a good king or a gallant knight. Robert Baratheon had been a whoring oaf, and Joffrey a sadist who enjoyed torturing her. She had seen Ser Gregor, who had burned Sandor, and the Kingslayer, who had killed poor Jory Cassel. Walder Frey had murdered Robb and mother. He was no brave lord. There was no such thing. They had been lies.

She wondered if mother had remembered those stories when Lord Frey ordered their deaths. Had she thought of the lies that she had told, and the unfair, unjust world that she had failed to prepare her daughters for? Had she thought of the pain and suffering that Sansa and Arya would endure after she was gone?

A quick death. What Sansa wouldn't give for this knight to slit her throat and have this all be done with. What she wouldn't give for him to end it all for her, so she would no longer have to live through his rapes, or be reminded of Joffrey's words, or the fists of the gallant knights on the Kingsguard. It could be over, and she could be at peace. Like father. Like Robb.

Father was lucky in the end. Joffrey had been right. He had been merciful. A quick death was all that people could hope for in this world, and at least father had been given that. He hadn't been forced to suffer Joffrey's torment, or Queen Cersei's mockery. It had all been ended so fast, and so quickly. She wished that the same could be said for her.

"The dragon holds Storm's End now, girl. Varys' dragon. When I hand you over to him I shall be given a reward. I shall be given gold and a lordship, or a wife of highborn lineage. Maybe he'll let me marry you, and then the whelps you father by me won't be bastards, but legitimate heirs to carry on my name and my legacy. I shall be rewarded."

He should be rewarded with sword and fire. He had taken her prisoner against her will. He had snatched her away from her friends, and he had told her that they were riding south. She had worried he was taking her to the Queen, but what he had done was much worse. He had taken her over and over and over. Every night and every morning. Whenever he wanted he would take her, and there was nothing that she could do about it.

Lies. Lies. They had all been lies. Her life had been proof of those lies, forced onto her one after another, in the same way that Shadrich forced himself onto her. She had stopped resisting him now, and would just let him use her however he wanted. It was better than fighting and getting beaten, or raped harder and more, as he said would happen. It was best just to let him do it. It was best just to get it over with.

They had lied to her.

Shadrich was nothing like Florian the Fool, or Aemon the Dragonknight, and Joffrey had been nothing like Daeron I, the Young Dragon, or Theon Stark, the Hungry Wolf. They were lies and deceptions. Why hadn't they prepared her for what the world was really like? Had they not known the truth? She should never have protected Joffrey from Arya. She should have let her kill him. All of her problems would have gone then.

She tried to push Shadrich's fingers away from the flower between her legs, but he just pressed in harder, and she whimpered from the pressure. He laughed at that, and just carried on, ignoring her discomfort.

"You best get used to this, girl. When we are wed then I shall have you whenever and wherever I want, and you will have to oblige, as my wife. You will do everything I say, or be beaten as punishment. That is a woman's duty. Your mother must have taught you that."

The castle of Storm's End came in to view soon after. It was a mighty castle, and the seat of the Baratheons, though Joffrey had never ruled here. It had been Renly, who she had met and liked in the capital, that had held the house home for Robert whilst he was away in King's Landing. Shadrich had told her about how a Targaryen boy had taken the castle now. That he was the righteous king, and the son of Prince Rhaegar.

Rhaegar had stolen her aunt and raped her to death, she had heard, and Robert had bloodied the Seven Kingdoms over her honour. Rhaegar's father, the Mad King, had burned her grandfather and uncle Brandon alive. Her father had helped King Robert dethrone the Targaryen dynasty. She was certain that the supposed last Targaryen would not treat her well for her Stark blood.

Some stories said that the castle of Storm's End was built by Brandon the Builder, the founder of House Stark, who had built Winterfell, the Wall and the High Tower of Oldtown. That was what Old Nan had told her and Arya, anyway. Had they been lies, too?

The journey up to the castle was a short one, though they could be seen from all around as they made their approach. Mayhaps the archers on the wall would shoot her dead, and it would be a quick end. Then Shadrich would be robbed of his prize. That would please her. She could ruin her captor's plan with her death. Where would he be then?

Shadrich dismounted his horse before the gate, and three men stepped out to greet him. The first of them was large with a pockmarked face. He had a hole in his cheek, and wore golden rings on his arm. The second was a tall man also, with thick arms and broad shoulders. He wore white enamelled steel, with a three-headed dragon on the front.

The last of the three men was the exception. He was slight and slender, though he still looked lean, with close cropped hair and no beard. There was a certain arrogance to the way that he stood. Maybe he was of higher birth than the others.

Shadrich went forward to greet the men, but they barred his way and refused to move.

"I am here to see Varys, the eunuch."

"He is not here."

That was the man with the hole in his cheek.

"He has never been here."

That was the second man, who wore the armour of the Kingsguard.

"He told me to come to the dragon king when I am ready. He told me to come collect my reward when I found the object of his desires."

"What does a eunuch desire? His cock?"

Shadrich was smaller than all of his men, though she had seen him practicing with his blade. He was quick, though he lacked the power of the Hound or Lothor Brune.

"I bring a gift to the boy king. Sansa Stark, the last surviving child of Eddard Stark. I was sent to find her. My name is Ser Shadrich of the Shady Glen."

"I am Ser Marq Mandrake of the Golden Company. This is Ser Robert Fell of the Kingsguard, and Ser Rolas of the Order of the Seven and the Dragon. He doesn't talk much."

The slight man wasn't paying attention to Shadrich, but was staring at her. He hadn't said anything since she had seen him, she suddenly realised. What was wrong with him? Had he had his tongue removed as some sort of punishment?

"You say you have Sansa Stark in your accompaniment, Ser Shadrich? Is this the girl? Why do you have her with you? Last I heard she had fled from the capital for murdering Joffrey Baratheon. How did she come to be with you?"

"I rescued her from the clutches of Petyr Baelish in the Vale, Ser. I brought her straight here, as the eunuch suggested."

The lean knight walked past Shadrich and to her. As he was close she could see his golden eyes. They were soft, and welcomed her in. They were also familiar. Where did she know that gaze from?

"Can you walk, my lady? Has he hurt you?"

He took her hand, and helped her dismount. She looked to Shadrich, who carefully shook his head, so that the others wouldn't see, but Ser Rolas did, and then he looked back at her.

"Speak with honesty and the Seven shall watch over you, and the Old Gods, too, though there is not much in the way of a weirwood around here. You can tell me. I am a knight of the faith. I can be trusted, my lady."

She hesitated, and then it all came flooding out.

"He- He took me from my friends. He ambushed me whilst I was praying. He raped me every night, at least twice. He took me whenever and wherever he wanted and wouldn't let me resist. He told me he would wed me and I would father his children."

Ser Rolas bristled at this, and turned to Shadrich, anger in his golden eyes.

"Do you think yourself of noble enough blood to be a worthy match for a daughter of Winterfell, Ser Shadrich? Did you think it was acceptable for you to rape the girl that was to be a gift for King Aegon?"

"She was mine! I took her! I claimed her! The eunuch promised me a reward! It was to be her hand so that I could leave my name in the annals of history!"

Ser Rolas drew his steel then, and approached the other knight. Marq Mandrake and Robert Fell watched on, a look of amusement on the former's face.

"Draw your steel, Ser. We will see how a brave raper handles a fight with a true swordsman."

Shadrich scoffed.

"You'll find that I'm more competent than I look- "

No sooner had he drawn his sword, than Ser Rolas had knocked it from his hand. He was so fast and so deft that Sansa had barely seen him move. She had though Shadrich to be quick with a blade, but this unknown knight was something completely different. Shadrich was now unarmed, and Rolas held his blade to the knight's tummy. Sansa silently urged him to kill him.

"You'll find that I am, too. I am Ser Rolas now, but before that they called me the Knight of Flowers."

Sansa's eyes opened wide. That was where she knew him from. What was he doing here?

"Ser Loras Tyrell."

He drove his sword through Shadrich, who toppled to the floor as he did. Sansa hobbled over to the Knight of Flowers, and looked down at her captor, who was dying slowly in the dirt. She hated him. He deserved this. He deserved to die.

"Ser Loras, may I- May I have the knife at your belt."

He handed her it. It was a simple knife. She thought it most unbefitting of the man that she had first met back in the capital with her father. He had enjoyed intricate things that displayed the wealth of his house. Why was he here pretending to be someone else?

She knelt down by the side of the dying knight, and whispered into his ear.

"You raped me half a hundred times, Ser. Maybe even more. You are no knight, and now you will die like the villain you were, but not before I stab you as many times as you took me."

She drove the dagger into his chest, and imagined his face changing between all the people that had wronged her. Joffrey Baratheon. Cersei Lannister. Ilyn Payne. Jaime Lannister. Auntie Lysa. Marillion the singer. Meryn Trant. Preston Greenfield. Mandon Moore. Boros Blount. Petyr Baelish.

She carried on stabbing until her arm was tired, and then she saw Shadrich's face again. His body was mutilated. She dropped the knife and staggered back. Ser Loras wrapped her up in his cloak, and spirited her inside.

He sat her down on a bed, and helped her wash her hands.

"I was worried for you when I heard you had gone missing. Thank you for saving my sister from that monster. House Tyrell owes you an immense amount of gratitude."

He thought that she had killed Joffrey? So, Petyr's murder of Ser Dontos had worked in his favour then. The crown didn't suspect him as orchestrating the murder. They did, however, suspect her.

"Why are you here, Ser Loras? A knight of the Kingsguard should be by his king's side. Do you not guard Tommen now?"

Arys bit his lip and then leaned in.

"You can keep a secret, Sansa? My sister said you could. I was sent her by my father to see whether or not this boy king is worth supporting. The Tyrells would rather support the dragon over the stag and the lion. Besides, Tommen is dead. His sister rules now."

Tommen was dead? Princess Myrcella was Queen? She remembered the girl from Winterfell. Septa Mordane had fawned over her stitching just because she was royalty. Usually Sansa had been the best at needlework.

"What do you think of him? The boy king, I mean."

"He is handsome and well bred. His hand is a rugged man, and can be blunt and forceful. He would need to make way for my father, I think. The boy is clever and well taught. He is good with a sword and brave, too, though not so much as me. You will meet him soon enough, I think."

She hung her head.

"What will he think of me? Wedded to a Lannister and betrothed to a Baratheon, and a Hardyng, and almost wed to a Tyrell. None of those ended well. Tyrion is in exile, and Joffrey and Harry are most like dead. What purpose could this boy king have of me. I'm naught but a girl raped half a hundred times by a lowborn knight."

Loras took her hand, and looked into her eyes.

"You're the key to the north."

Just then the door opened and a man stepped in. He was a fat faced man with brown hair. He wore the same white armour as Robert Fell, with the Targaryen dragon on the front.

"Ser Rolas- Ser Loras, I mean, your presence has been asked for by the king- After the girl. She goes first. Yes. That's what he said."

Loras rolled his eyes at her, and then rose.

"My thanks Ser Cafferen. I shall escort the girl over to our king."

The Kingsguard knight hesitated then.

"I am sorry, Ser Rolas- Ser Loras- But I have been told to bring her to King Aegon separately from you. I am sorry."

"Very well. Take the girl, but tell Aegon and Connington that she is to be kept safe. She is under Tyrell protection. If they want the Reach then she returns to these chambers alive."

The Kingsguard knight nodded, and then left, with Sansa following him. She felt the eyes of many men upon her as she was escorted above the courtyard and to the main keep of the castle. They then went up some stairs, and then to a pair of doors. They were guarded by two knights. One of them wore a cloak of white clasped by a stag, and the other a silver turtle.

The latter of these two opened the door, and indicated for Sansa to step inside. She did so, and the doors closed behind her.

" -Rolland sends news that my cousin's army is gone, and that Nightsong has surrendered to him and the Brave Companions."

That was the first thing she heard. It was from an older man with grey hair and a red beard, but that was going, too. He wore a jerkin that bore dancing griffins upon the breast. She didn't recognise the sigil. She realised that she had a number of eyes on her. There were five people gathered in the room.

The first she noticed was a blond man. He was a broad man, and wore a jerkin of white, black and gold. The next was a portly man with grey hair swept over his round head. He wore a sword at his belt, though he looked little like a warrior or a fighter.

The next figure stood out. She was a Dornish beauty, with olive skin, long black hair, and dark eyes. Her breasts were large, too, and she wore flowing silks of orange and red. She was shorter than Sansa, though. There was a knowing glint in her eyes, and she winked at Sansa as her eyes passed her over, causing Sansa to flush a shade of red.

Then there was the older man, and then there was the king. He was as handsome as Loras had said, with silver hair that danced in the light, violet eyes that seemed to mix a haunted expression with an adventurous nature, and a good figure. He was slender, but tall. She had thought Joffrey handsome once, though. She had been wrong about that. Beneath the royal features and the golden hair he had been more monster than man. She remembered his face as she stabbed Shadrich. It caused her to shiver.

"I was not told that the girl we had recovered was so-"

Aegon looked at her properly then, for he had not done so up until then. She could see that was something that he had been prepared to say, so as to flatter her. Something had stopped the boy king in his sentence, though. She tucked a lock of her thick, auburn hair behind one of her ears, embarrassed of the way that the boy was looking at her, and blushing even more.

"You- You're- I have never seen a woman as beautiful as you, my lady- I would have your hand-"

That was abrupt. Sansa could tell that those gathered were as shocked as she was by that comment. The old lord made to talk, but Aegon raised his hand.

"I am smitten- I- I would have you, Lady Stark. Would you take me?"

"I- I do not know you."

The blond lord then spoke.

"When a king asks for your hand you do naught but say yes, girl."

"Let her think, if that is what she wants. Marriage is no easy choice for a girl. Certainly not if it was you asking, Gower."

That was the Dornishwoman, who smiled at Sansa again as she looked at her. When she turned to Aegon she found him knelt on the floor before her. He took her hand gently in his, and kissed it lightly. Was this her prince? Was this the truth? Maybe they weren't lies after all. Maybe there were good kings.

"Yes."


	65. The Hound

Sandor Clegane did not sleep that night. He had barely slept the night before, or the night before that. Not since before the Stark girl had gone missing had any of them truly rested. Not since the Quiet Isle had he been able to sleep with some peace of mind. Wars bred cunts, and the Riverlands had known more wars than anywhere else in Westeros. They would have plenty of cunts, then.

He had already met some of them. Beric Dondarrion had been a righteous cunt, and his companion Thoros had been a religious one. According to the Northerner they were both dead. They deserved it.

There had been nothing sweeter to him than killing a man when he was younger, before he wound up on the Quiet Isle. He had enjoyed it, ending their lives. Every time he had imagined that they were his brother, or his father, or the boy cunt Joffrey. Every time he ended up realising that they weren't.

He had ridden down that Butcher's Boy on the orders of Robert Baratheon. He had been friends with the younger Stark girl, Arya, but he hadn't known it at the time. He had paid for that sin, amongst many others, when he repented on the Quiet Isle. He had been forgiven.

By the seven, he was almost as religious a cunt as Thoros had been. The Elder Brother had shown him that the darknesses and sins of your past could be changed. He would always have killed the people that he killed, but at least he could feel better about it, ever since the Starks had started to open up his conscience and made him feel.

That was why he hated himself for having let the girl go. He should have protected her, after he failed to protect her in the capital. He had failed. He was no knight, and he had always stood against the idea of knights, but she had been a young girl taken captive by a monster. Having a conscience was demanding work. He didn't like it.

What else could he blame himself for? He had been at King's Landing when it was sacked, but he had only killed a few men, and hadn't participated in any rapes. He also hadn't murdered babes and women like his brother.

The world better hope that Gregor Clegane never grew a conscience, for him confessing his sins could take years. Mayhaps some Septon would die of boredom whilst or listening, or in horror of the crimes that his brother had done. They could only be so lucky.

"Cunt."

"What?"

He looked up, and saw that Lothor Brune was awake, too. The two of them didn't get along. Brune felt himself a better sword than he was, and saw him as a Baratheon loyalist, even though he had abandoned the little cunt king at the Blackwater. What more could he have done to prove how much he hated the bastard, asides for killing the cunt himself? Even then, someone had seen to that soon enough. The world could only thank them.

"My brother. He's a cunt."

"I agree, dog. I know the feeling about lousy family. Mine turned me away when-"

Sandor looked over to Lothor, who stopped talking under the withering look that he was given.

"If I gave a fuck about your family then I would have asked about them. Get some sleep, Brune. We have a lot of walking to do tomorrow."

The boy did just that, tucking himself in with his bastard lover. There was some Baratheon in that girl. Sandor could see it in her eyes. Robert had sometimes talked of a bastard girl in the Vale. Maybe this was the girl.

The night was a long one, and Sandor waited throughout it, in the vain hope that Sansa would stumble back on their camp, but alas, that did not happen. The next day he took his bag over his shoulder, and lead the group on their walk. They had to find her, before she fell into the hands of someone worse than the cunt king.

The Riverlands had been burned by these wars. He had travelled here when Robert had gone to Winterfell, and when he was with the younger Stark girl. He had seen the damage then, but it had only worsened since. They had seen two packs of bandits since Sansa had been taken. The first belonged to the bitch that had tried to hang her, whilst the next had born banners of brown and yellow, with others adorned by red eagles. They had been riding west, both of them. They had managed to pass them by unnoticed.

"We've met before, you know? I went to King's Landing with Eddard Stark. I had heard tell of Joffrey's dog. I cheered when I heard that you had freed yourself of him."

Sandor turned his head slightly, and found Harwin, the Northerner, talking with him. The man was stocky, with the thick dark hair that all Northerners seemed to wear. He was strong with a sword, but not quick enough. He was sipping from a wineskin. It would be filled with water, Sandor knew. They each had one, taken from the corpses of a family they had found in an abandoned wagon.

"If you came south with Ned Stark then why is it that you aren't dead?"

"He sent me away with Lord Beric, to bring your brother to justice. We were ambushed. Lord Beric died, but Thoros brought him back. You already know that."

"Aye. I do. I've seen it with my own eyes and still I don't believe it. If death isn't permanent anymore then what is? I killed some Stark men that day."

Harwin turned to him, a look of sorrow in his eyes. Sandor didn't like that.

"My father was there that day. Did you kill him Clegane? He died in the stables."

"How the fuck should I know. I don't remember."

Harwin stopped and stared him down. Sandor racked his memory. He had killed some Northerners, and had taken the steward's girl prisoner to spare her a sword from some dumb Lannister cunt.

"I did not. Does that make you happy?"

"Yes. My father died so far from home, and so far from our gods."

"Our? You still worship to the trees properly? I thought you and your brotherhood worshipped the red god with his righteous fire that burns away the unjust and the unholy."

Harwin laughed at that, and took another swig from his pouch.

"My father would have come back to kill me had I abandoned what he taught me. Aye, some of the Northmen took a knew god, but I stayed true. Besides, who is to say that Lord Dondarrion wasn't brought back by the trees, Clegane?"

Sandor snorted.

"You sound more of a righteous cunt than fucking Thoros of fucking Myr. I liked you better when you were talking about your dead father."

"You know, I was told once that when your own father died, you left your keep and went to the Rock. What was it that scared you so much, Clegane? Was it just your brother, or was there something more? What scares the legendary Hound?"

Sandor stayed silent for a few seconds, and then grabbed Harwin by the throat, pressing him against a tree.

"You open your cunt mouth and ask me about my family again then I'll cut you in half, and dangle your guts from one of those white trees you worship."

Then he dropped him, and started walking again. Harwin didn't move.

"Does he scare you even now? Is that why you refuse to sleep? Do you fear him coming and thrusting your face into the flames again? Do you feel that same pain whenever you think about him? Is that what drove you to be as much a monster as your despised brother?"

He turned, and pointed at the Northerner, one hand on his sword.

"Do you want to carry on, boy? Make very sure before you say anything else. I am nothing like my brother- "

"You decry the order of knights, Clegane, but you ignore those who don't fit the idea that you have set forth. You call Thoros and Beric cunts, but they stood what knights should stand for. I knew knights who were just and true, and I am sure you have, too. I don't care what your brother has done, but do not consign yourself to this misery just because you think you know how all men think."

The Northerner was nearly out of breath after that speech. Sandor stepped closer, so their faces were almost touching. He didn't care whether Harwin could smell his breath, or if he found his spit in his face. He didn't shout, but his tone was one that invited him to answer back.

"You want the truth? My brother is a monster, but no less than Amory Lorch, Tywin Lannister, or his bastard son. You know what makes monsters? This world. My brother was no different. Gregor has always been big and strong, but never bright. Our father molested him. He raped my brother when he was a child, and he would have raped me and my sister, too. That's why he shoved my face into the flames. That's why he killed Lyvia. He was trying to save us. My father was a monster, and he made Gregor what he is."

He realised how heavy his breathing was now, and that there was sweat on his own brow. He wiped it off, and found Harwin, Lothor and the bastard girl all staring at him. He didn't say anything but turned around and carried on walking. They could follow if they wanted, or not if they didn't. He was going to find the Stark girl, though.

Not long after that but the bastard girl and the bullish boy were walking behind him. He remembered the boy. He had been Arya's friend before the Brotherhood. He had joined them, to be another a righteous cunt.

"I actually prefer a Warhammer over a sword. They're too light. Robert Baratheon had a better idea than Rhaegar Targaryen. Warhammer defeats sword every time."

He was discussing smithing? If he thought swords were too light then he should try handling one of Gregor's swings. Besides, the weight of them was the point. You could be both strong and quick, and go for hours, even days.

"What- What weapon do you use?"

"I don't fight when I have Ser Lothor to do that for me. We are together. We will be wed one day, I think."

"Oh."

The boy sounded downhearted. Had he really not seen the way that the bastard and Lothor Brune slept at night? Or the way that they talked in hushed whispers around the campfire?

It was another few hours before they came across the road. It was running east to west, and was deserted.

"We should make camp here. We have walked for long enough."

He put down his sack, and the others did likewise, and then he went for a piss. He hoped that Harwin didn't come to apologise to him as he did. He would have to piss on the Northerner's shoes to tell him to fuck off.

"This is the Goldroad."

He heard Lothor Brune say. After he had tucked his cock back in his breaches he went over to the rest of the group.

"How can you be so sure."

"I was a hedge knight for many years, dog. I know roads, and this runs between King's Landing and Casterly Rock. If whoever took Sansa was giving her to the Lannisters then they would likely go along this road."

He snorted at that. It was a studio thought.

"What if they have already passed, Brune? Or if they aren't giving her to the fucking Lannisters? We can't just wait here and hope that she passes by. Grow some fucking balls."

The sellsword looked as if he was about to square up to him. He would cut this one in two and then remove his head. It would only take him a matter of seconds. Lothor Brune was no slouch with a sword, but they just weren't on the same level.

"Horses! I see riders coming this way!"

That was Harwin, and the five of them quickly disappeared back into the trees, that ran along the road. Sandor squinted to try and see the banners. He saw red, and he saw gold, and then he knew what he was seeing.

"Lannisters."

He stepped out into the road, with Lothor Brune and Harwin following behind him. The bastard girl and the blacksmith stayed behind the trees. Neither of them were trained enough to help in a fight, should it come to that.

The Lannister party stopped before them, and one of their men unmounted and walked to the three of them. He was a short, squat man, who was going bald, even though he did not look so old. He had tried to grow a beard, but it looked more like the fluff you found on an arse. He wore the chicken of Swyft on his doublet. A craven then, most as like.

"I would ask you to get off the road. I have a group of armed knights willing to fight for me, and a knight of the Kingsguard in my presence. I do not advise fighting."

Sandor stepped forward. He didn't like talkers who couldn't back up their words.

"Right. Which Kingsguard rides with you? Meryn Trant? Boros Blount? I've always wanted to shove my sword up their arse, pompous cunts. Bring forth your knight and I will gut him with ease, Swyft."

Then the ground almost shook, and Sandor turned to see a hulking giant of a man, dressed in the white enamelled armour of the Kingsguard, off his horse and walking towards them. Another two men pulled forward. The first was young and handsome, with a sweet, unassuming face. Sandor instantly didn't trust him. He wore a necklace of coins.

The next was an old man in a black robe. He, likewise, had a kind face, but shallow eyes that masked a dark soul. He hid behind a façade of his age. Sandor didn't trust him, either, and Sandor was usually a good judge of character.

It was the large man that his attention, though. There were few men in the Seven Kingdoms of that size. He had thought him dead, but clearly he was not.

Gregor.

"You would be Sandor Clegane, yes? Your face is well known to me. Stand aside, dog. Me and my man bare you no ill will."

That was the old man, but he was fool to think that Sandor was moving for him. He had held hatred for his brother for most of his life, and he now had the chance to end his demons. Bugger the Elder Brother and his ideas of forgiveness. He was going to make his brother bleed.

"The Hound versus the Mountain. This should be fun."

That was the younger man. The Swyft knight had removed himself, and Lothor and Harwin had both taken a step back. Good. He didn't want them getting in the way.

"I thought you were dead, brother. I thought that the Red Viper had robbed me of the chance of ending you for good. I cursed him. I will not let you get away from me, and I will not allow another to end you. I will end you."

Gregor's hand moved slowly for his sword, and then he drew it with a purpose. It was a mighty blade, larger than most squires.

He drew his own blade, and prepared for battle. His brother swung, with as much power as Sandor expected of him. He parried it, knocking the blade to the left, but his brother stayed on his feet. Twice more Gregor swung for him, and twice more he blocked them with his sword. Gregor wouldn't tire, no matter how hard he swung. He needed to make an opening for himself.

He drove at Gregor's chest with a thrust, but his brother knocked the blade down, and went to strike him with his weaker hand. Sandor grabbed it, to soften the blow, but was still sent flying. He got up quick, and rolled to the side to prevent Gregor from finishing him. His brother's sword hit the ground, and sparks flew.

Sandor ran at him, and tackled his brother, leaving them both on the floor. He knelt on top of his brother, and went to put his hands around his throat, but found nothing there. What was this? How could this be?

As he was shocked and grasping, his brother rolled him onto his back, and went to gouge out his eyes. Sandor tried to fend him off, but Gregor had his arms held down. Instead then he bit down on his brother's fingers, pulling one of them away. Gregor didn't bleed, but he pulled back, and then Sandor struck. He picked his brother's sword from the ground and swung it at hi,=m. He struck him in the chest, sending Gregor onto his side.

He went to him, and removed the helmet. When he found what was beneath he dropped it again. There was nothing. His brother was without a head. He turned to the men that had accompanied the large knight.

"What is this?"

The old man was the one to respond.

"He is brought back from the dead. It causes great pain, and he wouldn't stop screaming. I had to remove his head, as well to help my Queen."

Sandor looked down at the body of his brother.

He had hated him for most of his life. He had despised him for what he had done to him. He had made him into a hideous monster who would never get the woman that he loved. He would die alone.

Yet he had realised on the Quiet Isle why Gregor had done it. He had been trying to save him from a larger monster, or at least in his mind. He drove his brother's sword down then, into the stomach of his brother, finishing him and finishing his pain.

Then Sandor Clegane walked away.


	66. Arthor V

Arthor had arrived back at Castle Cerwyn not long after the return of Melisandre. With her had come the confirmation of the death of Princess Shireen Baratheon at the hands of the Bastard of Bolton. Godry Farring had wanted to take the head of the Bolton man who came with the red priestess, but even in his state of grief he had disallowed it, instead sending him back to Winterfell to deliver terms of the Bolton's surrender to the Leech Lord.

The red priestess had been given her own room, and would often keep herself in there, with one of the Kingsguard stood outside. Usually it was Robin Potter, as he followed the faith of the red god, but it could be one of the new men that Stannis had appointed whilst he had been gone.

There was Fyr of the Seven Stars, who was a young boy, not yet hardened in battle. He hadn't even ridden south with the Young Wolf. He followed the Faith of the Seven from the south, which made Arthor fear that he was yet another Manderly man getting close to the king. Was Desmond Grell not enough?

The other man was Ned Tonver. He was another lowborn man, born of no high house, but of the union of some lord and a miller's wife. He was tall, with a thick beard of black. Arthor found these appointments strange, as they did not bring any houses to the Baratheon side. It was true that Robin Potter brought no support, and that the Horpes were loyal to Stannis anyway, but he needed more Northern houses to back him against Roose Bolton.

He was in the lord's solar of Castle Cerwyn now, stood before Stannis and his gathered advisors. He was with Aegor Stane and Marlon Manderly, who were the two most highborn of his companions. Robin Ryger and the bard, Abel, were also here, but they did not stand before the king.

Stannis had been hit hard by the news of his daughter's death. There were bags under his eyes, showing that he had not been sleeping. His hair had start to grow grey from the stress, and his beard was less cropped than it usually was.

"What of Karhold then, Ser Arthor? Did you bring the wildlings over to our side?"

Arthor looked to Marlon, who was stared straight ahead, ignoring any pleas for assistance from his companions.

"The wildlings wish you to put your animosities with House Bolton aside so as to face the threats from the north, your grace. They also killed the maester, Tybald. I do not know why, but I found his body outside the rooms of Tormund Giantsbane."

Stannis remained silent at that. His fingers were tensed, and his eyes flitted around the room, taking in the faces of all of his gathered men. Brynden Blackwood. Theon Greyjoy. Mors Umber and Hugo Wull. They eventually settled on young Aegor Stane.

"You, boy. I do not know your name."

"I am Aegor of House Stane, your grace. I hail from the island of Skagos."

That caused an intake of breath from around the room, though Stannis appeared to be unmoved by the revelation.

"You know of wildlings, then. Tell me, what do you know of the people who call themselves the Thenns?"

Aegor looked to Arthor, who inclined his head gently. He should answer the question that his king posed to him.

"The Thenns have lords and laws ... They mine tin and copper for bronze, forge their own arms and armour instead of stealing it. A proud folk, and brave, your grace. They stay in their valleys and follow their Magnar. They don't often raid beyond the Wall."

"And yet now they have. The Magnar of Thenn has run south, as his father did, trying to escape whatever he thinks is coming. The war to the north is a true threat, and we must be prepared to fight it. The Great Other comes, and winter comes with him."

Arthor looked around again. Some of the gathered lords were unfazed by the news, whereas others looked shocked and surprised. Mors Umber was whispering something into the ear of Morgan Liddle.

"Why did you leave your island to come here, Aegor Stane?"

Aegor stepped forward then, and knelt before King Stannis.

"House Stane has stayed silent for too long. My father sent me to serve you however you would want it. With me I can bring the Crowls of Deepdown and the Magnars of Kinghouse. They are yours to command, your grace, if you would have me."

Again Stannis stayed silent for some time, with the boy still on his knee before him. Eventually he rose, and gestured for Robin Peasebury to hand him his sword, which the lord quickly obliged to. Stannis laid the point of the blade first on Aegor's right shoulder, and then the left.

"Do you swear to protect those who cannot protect themselves?"

"I do."

"Do you swear to give your life to your king, if that should be required?"

"I do."

"Are you prepared to take your post, father no children, hold no lands, and win no glory? You will keep your post until your death. Do you understand this?"

"I do."

Stannis put the sword down on the desk behind him, and offered Aegor a hand.

"Then rise for me, Ser Aegor Stane, knight of the Kingsguard. I welcome you into my household, and into the service of your king."

Aegor rose, and then took his place besides Arthor again.

"Now, my lords and knights, I have brought you here to discuss how best to destroy the Boltons. They have taken my daughter from me, so I shall see both Roose Bolton and his bastard burning for their crimes against my house and against my family. Their treachery knows no bounds, and they should be punished for their acts here and at the Twins."

That earned a call of respect from the men of the mountains to the North, as well as Mors Umber and the Deepwood men that had been called here. Wyman Manderly, who was seated near to the king, was curiously silent, as were Brynden Blackwood, Lord Locke, and Maege Mormont.

"We must take the castle of Winterfell soon, as we do not have the food to maintain a siege against them. We cannot storm the walls, or we will lose our men. We must think of a plan."

That was met with silence. Not many of the Northern lords had much idea when it came to strategy and battle tactics. They had no Tywin Lannister, and Jon Umber was still in the south. Stannis sighed, and then turned to them all.

"Very well, I shall think on it myself. Go. Leave me. All except you, Karstark. I wish to talk with you about something."

The lords then made their move out of the room. Godry Farring and Wyman Manderly both shot him a look as they went past, but Arthor stayed strong against it. He did not care what those two thought of him. He could beat either of them in a fight, should he want, although Farring would be considerably harder.

Eventually the room was empty, and Stannis seated himself back at his desk. He stared at Arthor for a few seconds, and then leaned forwards.

"What do you think of Ned and Fyr, Ser Arthor? They are good men."

He didn't know either man well enough to offer an assessment on their worthiness to serve on the Kingsguard. Why was his king asking about them? He knew that Arthor had only been back a matter of days.

"I would have thought you would have given those spots to men who brought houses with them, such as you did with young Aegor."

Stannis nodded, and then got up. He was a tall man, with a sinewy figure, and broad shoulders. He walked to him, and whispered.

"They do. They bring houses that I needed, Ser Arthor. Ned is of the Overtons, and Fyr of the Whitehills. Both those houses have men in Winterfell. Their father's will help me take the castle now. Bolton cannot know, though, and I do not trust everyone here. Lord Manderly changes sides like a whore changers lovers, and I see the way that Mors Umber whispers to the men of the mountain clans. They doubt me."

It was true. Even he had seen the way that Mors Umber grew impatient of waiting. His brother was inside the walls of Winterfell. He wanted Bolton blood, to avenge the Umber lives lost at the Red Wedding. Wyman Manderly was just a man that shouldn't be trusted as a rule of law.

"We strike soon. They must know that. I have to keep them in line. When Bolton is dead, then they shall support me more. Then I shall have the North, and I can look to defend the Wall from what lies beyond. You may leave me, Karstark. I intend to go see Lady Melisandre."

He bowed to his king, and left the chambers. No sooner had he got out of sight of the door, than he was confronted by Abel, the bard.

"Tormund Giantsbane killed the maester, did he? Why did you lie to your king, Ser Karstark? Do you fear that he wouldn't believe that the grey maester betrayed him? Does he not trust you?"

"I don't know of what you speak, bard. Leave me alone."

Abel didn't, however, and followed him. At times he was behind him, and at times in front. He danced along.

"You killed the maester, Karstark. I know you did it. Why would you try to pin the blame on the Free Folk? What do you stand to gain?"

"We should not be siding with wildlings. They have raped and raided in our lands for centuries. They do not deserve to be forgiven now that they need our help, especially if they think that they are the ones to start making demands."

The bard stopped dancing then, and Arthor pushed on past him. He ignored the calls that Abel made to him as he walked away.

"He will find out the truth one day, Karstark! Then you will have to explain why saw fit to lie to the king you served so diligently!"

They were empty threats. The bard was a Manderly man, and Manderly still had use for him, or so he claimed. What use that was had yet to be established. Maybe it was just something that he said. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder. When he turned he found Marlon Manderly stood before him.

"The Hand of the King requests an audience, Ser Arthor. Would you come with me?"

He didn't wish to, but who knows what Wyman could get up to if he didn't feel like whatever he was plotting was working. He followed Marlon to Wyman's chambers, and found Lord Manderly seated with his own preferred advisors.

There was Maege Mormont, Robett and Galbart Glover, Ser Bartimus, and Ondrew Locke, who looked nearly asleep. He did not wish to stay long, and so he did not take the seat that he was offered. He disliked how Wyman Manderly thought that he could just whistle and that he would come. He was no dog.

"Ser Karstark, it is good to see that you still have the ear of our shared king. I was wondering if you would tell me what it was that he talked with you about."

"I would not. I have my king's confidence. If he chooses not to tell his Hand of the King of his plans then it is not my place to share his secrets."

Wyman nodded at that, though Maege Mormont grumbled, and Robett protested.

"You are the Hand of the King, my lord! He should share his secrets with you more than a knight from a family of traitors! He doesn't even tell the rest of the Kingsguard his plans! Richard Horpe and the Greyjoy boy are the only others who know what is happening, and neither of them are complying with us! Why have all these councillors if you only trust a few?!"

"Agreed, brother. There is no point in us attending these meetings if we are not invited to share our King's thoughts. We are his army. He is at risk of losing us, and Mors Umber too. He wants Bolton blood soon.

Arthor turned away from the group and left. He did not want to hear their machinations, nor their thoughts of betraying the one true king. He looked out over the courtyard of the castle. Larence Snow was taking lessons in the sword from Desmond Grell, whilst Abel was talking with a young, blond girl in the corner. No doubt he was trying to seduce her.

He passed them by. The girl was holding her stomach, and wincing in pain. Abel put his hand on her shoulder, as if he was comforting her. Typical bard. Those types were always looking for young girls to fuck and ditch. He looked up to the balcony that looked out over the courtyard, and saw the Greyjoy boy. He was watching Abel and the girl intently, a look of fear on his face. Arthor saw the girl spot him, and a smile pass over his face.

He went to Greyjoy.

"I hear that you are also in favour with our king. He tells you his plans like he does me. Why is this, Theon Turncloak."

"Greystark."

Arthor was confused. What was the boy talking about? The Greystarks had been extinct for centuries past.

"Stannis has renamed me. I am acknowledged as the adopted son of Lord Eddard Stark. I have been given the name Greystark. I- I do not know why he trusts me."

"We share two things in common, then. I am of a family who bears the Stark name, and I do not know why such faith is placed in me, or whether I am worth that faith. I killed a man and lied to my king. Is that wrong?"

Theon looked down at his feet for a few seconds.

"It is better to kill a man than to allow him to suffer at the hands of our enemies. I should have let Rodrik Cassel kill me. Maybe then none of this would have happened. Maybe Robb would still hold the North."

That answer did not help settle Arthor's conscience. The boy whimpered then, as he looked on over the courtyard. He was still looking at the bard and his whore.

"Holly."

He heard the boy mutter. What was that? A name? Did he recognise the girl?

"She survived. She survived. I thought her dead with Frenya and Myrtle and the rest, but she survived, and him, too. Abel."

"You know Abel?"

Theon nodded.

"He was in Winterfell. He played for Roose Bolton and Lord Manderly. He wanted to free her. To free Arya. They won't let me see her. The knight of the purple soldier. He keeps her away from me. But Abel. He should not be trusted. Holly neither. She has a knife. She has a knife."

A knife? The boy was babbling. Why did Stannis trust such a weak minded fool? What could he possibly see in this boy that made him think that he could serve as regent over the North for young Rickon Stark. He was too weak. Give the title to Maege Mormont, or Jon Umber, or even Howland Reed. They were all friends to House Stark.

Mormont was a Manderly supporter, though, and Greatjon Umber was warring in the south for House Tully. Howland Reed locked himself away in the Neck, and had not answered the call of Stannis. He would never be chosen. Who did that leave? The Ryswells, Dustins and Flints had chosen the Boltons, and Mors Umber and his supporters were too bloodthirsty to be reliable. The Northerners would never bend the knee to Lord Stane, and Larence Snow was too young.

Mors Umber supported the Greyjoy boy, at the very least, though Wyman Manderly and his group had not seemed too fond of him earlier.

Just then a horn blew. It came from the battlements. He rushed to see what it was. When he got there he found that Marlon Manderly, Desmond Grell, Godry Farring and Larence Snow had beaten him there. They were looking down at two men, who bore the Bolton standard between them. The first was the man that Stannis had sent away before. The second was grizzled and older. He wore steel greaves over his shins. It was he that had blown the horn. The young one rode forth, and started to speak with them.

"Open the gates! We have news for your king!"

 _*Hey there readers! I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and are anxious to find out the news that the Boltons wish to share with Stannis is. Next up you should be getting the first Tyrion Lannister chapter of the story. I've been anxious over writing this, as I don't think I can do the character the same amount of justice that George does, so I hope it all goes well, and you enjoy it. That brings me to the purpose of this message. We are now about half way through the second act of the story. I hope you've enjoyed it so far. We are also approximately half way through the story overall, which means more and more character arcs will be being completed and more and more characters are going to die! Sorry! I hope you enjoy. Author out!*_


	67. Tyrion Lannister

Tyrion Lannister enjoyed Lys. It was his kind of city. The people here were wealthy and soft, and they had almost as many bedwarmers as Robert Baratheon. They had stopped here for a week, so that Barristan could see the ships restocked. Of course, brave Ser Barristan the Bold would never frequent a tavern such as this one. He took his Kingsguard vows of celibacy more seriously than his old sworn brothers in King's Landing. That wasn't to suggest that some of the Targaryen fleet couldn't enjoy themselves here, though it was with some surprise that Tyrion found himself sat with Ser Jorah Mormont.

The Northern knight looked uncomfortable here, even though he had lived in Lys for a time. There was no man alive who knew the Free Cities better than Jorah Mormont, though he did not know them as they were now.

Only Lorath, Tyrosh and Braavos had remained untouched by what was occurring. Daenerys Targaryen had burned the sorcerers of Qohor out of their huts, and had forced the Bearded Priests of Norvos into bending the knee. She had last been seen in Pentos, and since then the Prince of Pentos. Cossoma Medioci, had declared a war of emancipation on Myr. The Lysene had jumped on the opportunity, and had blocked the Myrish port, to extort wealth from one of their old enemies.

Volantis, of course, had its own problems. After the death of their red priest, Benerro, the slaves had risen up and slain their masters. Moqorro, the red priest that Victarion Greyjoy had adopted, had tried to join them, but the Ironborn had drowned him in a barrel of saltwater after they heard of their leader's death. Ser Jorah had told them everything.

They had chosen their new leaders. There was Red Ralf Stonehouse, a dullard of a man, though better than Victarion at least, and a man called Ralf the Limper, some bastard. The Two Ralfs, the Ironborn had taken to calling them. They truly weren't lacking in wit.

"Why are you with me, Ser Jorah?"

Jorah grunted. The two of them had spent hardly any time since they arrived in Meereen. It was strange, seeing that they had spent so long as companions before that. Tyrion thought to the other of their band, and hoped that Penny and her pig had survived after Meereen had been abandoned. He was sorry that they had been forced to leave her behind.

"I know that you are not one for words, Ser Jorah, but some more would be appreciated. I was hoping for more than just sitting here. I want a woman, and it feels near awkward getting one with you watching over me."

Jorah looked right, and then left, and then leaned in and whispered.

"This place is not safe for me, Imp. I am not accepted in Lys anymore. If my former wife's lover discovers that I am here then he will have me sold back to the cities we have so recently left. I do not desire to lose my cock and become one of Astapor's new Unsullied."

"Nor should any man. Stay by my side, friend, though I am not sure what it is I do to protect you."

He rose his goblet of wine, and took a deep gulp of it. Dornish red. It had been so long since he had drunk any good stuff. The Ghiscari wine was thin and tasted of metallic piss. He had drunk Northern wine that tasted nicer, and Northern wine was just ale, but slightly less intoxicating.

"Your sister's words echo even here, Imp. You are the only man amongst us more wanted than I. Should my enemy find me, then I shall trade him you for my freedom."

"Ah."

He had suspected that Ser Jorah wasn't here for a bonding session. Still though, he had hoped that they had moved past this kind of thinking. Were they not friends now? They had travelled the world together. Lomas Longstrider would be disappointed.

"Then to wanted men, and let us hope that they both escape the people that they want them."

He clanked his goblet with Jorah's, which contained merely water, who nodded and downed his drink. Tyrion took another sip from his.

"You should get yourself a woman, Mormont. That will help you forget your old wife. I find that to be the truth."

"You had a wife, Imp? What woman would marry you?"

He turned his seat, and found Shyra behind him. The woman was an enchanting proposition, though her golden hair reminded him too much of Cersei. That could be changed, though. Her eyes were what drew him in. Even when she was sneering at him they held a calm coolness, and a kindness that he thought that she liked to hide, but that he could see. She was Westerosi, though she had refused to tell any of them where she was from.

"Two women, as a matter of fact. One was forced, and the other- Well, she paid for her looking beyond my hideous visage. Or, rather, other paid her."

He had killed his father and estranged his brother because of what happened to Tysha. Where do whores go? They come here. They go to brothels, and yet all Tyrion could see was Jorah, Shyra, and her pirates, the men of the Corsair King.

Tywin Lannister had been a monster, but there was no man as accursed as a kinslayer and a kinslayer, as Ser Barristan liked to remind him. He had not killed Joffrey, though he wished that he had, but he had killed his father. He had shot him on the privy. He has shot him for Tysha, for Shae, and for Joffrey. He had been in the right. His father had been a monster. Even now he had to remind himself of that near constantly. Even now he doubted himself. Even now he suspected that the gods were looking down on him moving him like a cyvasse piece.

"I hear you wed a girl of winter, Imp? How cold was her cunt? Did your cock freeze off when you put it inside her?"

That caused some of her men to laugh, and one of them to bang his drink down on the table, calling for him to prove that he still had his member between his legs. He would rather whip it out for a woman, and not the hairy oaf that was asking for it.

"Tell your captain that if she wants proof it exists then I am more than happy to let her get on her knees and see it."

There was more laughter, but none of it from Tyrion, for no sooner had he stopped speaking than Shyra's arm was around him, and her knife was at his throat. Her lips were in his ear, and her words came to him loud and clear.

"Talk of me like that again, Lannister, and I shall not be treating you as gentle as you like, you understand me? I'd have gladly spilled your blood already, for what you did to me, but my king insists that you should live. You should feel yourself lucky."

"I do. Lucky old me. Would you kindly consider removing the knife from my person?"

She held it there for a few seconds, letting him feel the cold, harsh steel against his skin. When she removed it, he put his hand to his throat, and felt a few beads of blood forming. He dropped from his stool, and went to the door to the tavern, unable to drown their laughter from his ears as he did. Ser Jorah got up and followed him.

"You could have protected me, you know? Where would your protection have been if she'd killed me there?"

"You need my help to fend off a woman, Imp?"

Tyrion shook his head, and then started to walk. The girl would never really have killed him. He was too valuable to the cause of Daenerys Targaryen, who her master had decided to support. He was a Lannister of Casterly Rock, in name at least, and that granted him at least some level of protection from the underling thugs in this army.

His father would never have stood for a Lannister being threatened by a pirate, but what more could Tyrion do? He could report the incident to the Corsair King, who seemed to have some sort of fascination with him, but he suspected that he would just be laughed out of the room. He disliked dealing with these pirates.

"Jorah!"

The two of the turned, and Tyrion spied a beautiful maid heading in their direction. Her hair was blond, and her skin the colour of cream. He could see a look of shock on Jorah's face, and then his eyes squinted.

"Lynesse. I was hoping we would not meet."

"Oh Jorah, you aren't still bitter about that, are you? I tried to stay faithful, I really did, but Tregar was so rich, and you were so-"

"Poor? You made me that way. Dishonourable? You again, Lynesse. Far away from home? You. I do not wish to speak with you."

Jorah turned his back, but Lynesse Hightower did not leave. She placed her hand on his shoulder. Tyrion thought for a second that Jorah was going to slap her, but the knight restrained himself. Whatever feelings he had once had for this woman had stopped him from making that mistake.

"I hear that you are a knight to the dragon queen, Jorah. I was wondering if I could come with you-"

"For what ourpose, Lynesse? So you can remind me of what I lost every day? So you can suck Daenerys dry like you did me? She has no need for you, and nor do I. Go back to Tregar, and warn him that dragons are coming."

Lynesse's face sunk at that, and she dropped her arm from Mormont's shoulder. Tyrion felt uncomfortable watching the gruff, emotionless knight like this. He preferred to think of Jorah as not having a past that involved romantic feelings. He was clearly in love with Daenerys, though Tyrion could tell that it was just because she reminded her of this Hightower girl, and he had never even met the Targaryen.

"Then I have another favour. My brother, Ser Humfrey, has been named to the Queensguard. Our father and brother have been killed. I was wondering if you could deliver him a letter from me. It was the last wish of my father."

Jorah didn't respond for a few seconds, but he took the letter eventually. Then he strode off, and Tyrion had to jog slightly to keep up with him. Curse his short legs. Mormont's strides were long, and too quick for him.

"You- You don't think we should have brought her? The Hightowers are a wealthy house-"

"I would rather deal with a den of snakes than Leyton Hightower, dwarf. He plays the game with people and fprces you to be indebted to him. Daenerys would do well to stear clear of him."

Tyrion gave up on keeping up with him then, and stopped walking, watching Jorah disappear into the crowds of Lys. He was alone and lost. How could he get back to the harbour from here? He was a dwarf all alone in a foreign city.

"Would you like my services, Lord Tyrion."

That was Carter, who he had recruited himself from the Second Sons. He was a thin man, with thin face and sharp eyes. The scar that ran across his face was almost as bad as Tyrion's own war wound. Maybe that was why he had singled him out.

"It has been a while, Carter. I did not see you on the flagship. Where do you sail?"

"With Daegon Shepherd. I watch over Ben Plumm on the orders of your white knight highborn friend. You have not forgotten our deal, Imp?"

Tyrion sighed. Everyone in the east thought him capable of delivering the wealth of Casterly Rock to them, should he help them. This one was no difference. He could join Ben Plumm, Daario Naharis and the Corsair King on the list of fools.

"You make sure that I am protected and I shall give you one hundred golden stags. I remember. You shall be rewarded, if I ever make it back to the Rock alive. That would please my father, I think."

Carter laughed at that. It was a surprpisingly loud and raucous noise, though nobody here paid it much attention. Lys was a loud city, and people had little interest in the actions of others.

"See me back to the ships for now, Carter. I feel I have had enough to drink for today."

Carter kept his hand on the hilt of his sword as they pushed through the crowds of Lys, down towards the packed harbour. He remembered that he had once asked his father to allow him a trip through the Free Cities, but that it had been rejected. He had wanted to have the same experiences as his uncles, Kevan, Tygett and Gerion, who had all travelled the Free Cities when they became men. His father had said that he would just embarrass the family, and damage their legacy.

Still, he was getting to see some of them now. He had visited Pentos with Illyrio, and Volantis and Tyrosh more recently, on this trip back to Westeros. Maybe he would get the chance to visit Braavos, and see the House of Black and White, or the Sealord's Palace. There would be no visit to Qohor, now, or at least, if there was, all he would find is ruins.

The Iron Victory had remained their flagship even without Victarion as their captain. His lieutenant, Tom Tidewood, had taken over the captaincy. The man was short, but not as short as him. He was thin armed, but commanded the Ironborn's respect. He was the exact opposite of the old captain. The Ironborn certainly were strange creatures.

He found that Selmy was absent when he arrived at the ship. He had gone to talk with some of the powerful men of Lys, to see if any of them would come to support Daenerys. They could do with more ships. Soon they would pass through the Stepstones and into the Narrow Sea. Pirates ruled there, and they didn't answer to the Corsair King.

Tidewood and his Ironborn were absent, too. They would have gone to find some sleazy tavern or brothel, and to find whores that would be willing to give themselves over for minimal gold or silver. The ship was empty, therefore, so he went belowdecks.

He dismissed Carter, and went to the chambers that he reluctantly shared with Jorah Mormont. He found the knight sat at their table, a lit candle in front of him. He was staring at the letter that the Hightower woman had given him. Had he read it? Did he know the contents?

"What would you do, Imp? What would you do if the woman who you had loved asked you to do a favour?"

"I do not think I have ever loved a woman before. Not one who would want my favour, anyway. I cannot help you with this decision, Mormont."

Jorah did not move for a few seconds, and then he held the corner of the letter into the candle's flame. He watched as the letter slowly burned, and then crushed it in his glove, letting the cinders drop to the floor. Tyrion inclined his head to the man, out of respect, before then turning away. He understood that the man needed to be left alone. He was mourning the loss of love, and the loss of his queen. Hopefully they would be reunited soon enough.

When he left, he found a man stood outside. It was the dark haired Corsair King, who was leaning on the side of the ship, as if he had been listening in. The man was different to the rest of the pirates. Even his female lieutenant had been out drinking. What was this one still doing here? Was he plotting something alone?

"Your friend sounds like he has solved quite a predicament. He was married to Lynesse Hightower, correct?"

"Indeed. I am surprised you have such a knowledge of Westerosi genealogy. Where does a pirate acquire such a skill?"

The King laughed at that, and then turned his back on him, before looking back at him over his shoulder.

"I was there when the two of them met. I was the Tourney of Lannisport, dwarf. What does that tell you?"

Tyrion tried to think. That tourney had been to celebrate King Robert's victory over Balon Greyjoy. Had the Corsair King been one of the Ironborn prisoners? That would explain his naval skill. Had he been one of the gathered nobles? Maybe he had been one of the lowborn serving men, or a hedge knight who had ridden in the lists.

"What should it tell me?"

"I heard tales of the clever dwarf of Casterly Rock, and yet he cannot even work this out. How disappointing, Lord Tyrion. I have been using this name for many years now. I hoped that of all people you would be able to work it out. I am deeply aggrieved of this, nephew."

Nephew? Nephew? What was he saying? Was he one of his father's brothers? Not Kevan, nor Tygett, and Gerion was long since gone-

Gerion! His kind uncle Gerion who had disappeared searching for Brightroar in the ruins of Old Valyria! Could this man be him? How was he here, and why had he kept this secret from him?

"I watched you from afar, nephew. I visited King's Landing and saw you with your brother and sister, serving King Robert. I captained the ship that took you from there to Pentos. I took Astapor so that you would come to me and ask for my help, for I need yours. You killed Tywin, I know that, but my brother had become a monster, and I had my own monsters to fight."

"Euron Greyjoy?"

Gerion bowed his head and removed his shirt. Tyrion gaped at the mangled, burned flesh that lay beneath. He had seen the face of Sandor Clegane when he was in King's Landing, but his uncle's body was worse. The entire right side was burned, and the lower half of his left too. The skin had been melted. The flesh was slick, and pocked with craters. It ran down the right arm, too, stopping just before the elbow.

"He burned me, Tyrion. He is a pirate and a stealer of stories. He set upon me not long after I escaped the ruins of Valyria, in an attempt to take Brightroar. Another had already done so, however, and instead he took my crew, took their tongues, and left me on my ship to burn to death. I escaped, but not without some scars."

"And then you came into the employ of Varys and his cheesemonger friend?"

Gerion shook his head.

"I do not serve the eunuch. I asked him to be allowed to look out for you, and he obliged. That is all the involvement that I had with Varys the Spider."

Tyrion heard a new voice then. It was a woman's. He turned, and found Shyra stood behind them. Except it wasn't Shyra. She no longer had the long blond hair of before, but now she had dark hair, and blue eyes. She was more slender than strong. She looked down on him, and Tyrion realised what he was missing.

Where do whore go?

"Tysha."


	68. Theon IV

splixTheon rode on the far right of the group that Stannis Baratheon had assembled to accompany him. Damon-Dance-For-Me and Steelshanks Walton had come and called, saying that Roose Bolton wished to talk with him inside Winterfell. Ten men he had been allowed with him, and ten men had answered his call.

There was Marlon Manderly, who rode for his cousin, the Hand of the King, who was too fat to ride upon a horse, and Mors Umber, who represented the Northerners of the far north. Stannis was accompanied by Richard Horpe and Arthor Karstark of his Kingsguard. He had left the other knights behind to marshall up his forces, and prepare them for battle, should they need to be ready.

Godry Farring, the knight of the sparring men, was coming too, as was Robin Peasebury, the Lord Peapod, as the Northerners called him. They were southrons, and represented the southern part of Stannis' force.

The last three were Galbart Glover, Maege Mormont, and Brynden Blackwood. They were highborns, and each was a capable fighter and thinker, though Theon suspected that all three were more loyal to the Lord of White Harbour than King Stannis.

Damon-Dance-For-Me and Steelshanks Walton rode in the centre, in front of Stannis and the Kingsguard knights. Theon had tried to place himself as far from those two as he could. Neither of them were to be trusted. One of them was loyal to Roose, and the other was loyal to Ramsay. Both of their masters were monsters, and Damon was near as bad as his master.

The two had remained tight lipped on what the news they were bringing was, but they were not far from Winterfell now. It would not be long until they found out whatever it was that was so important for them to know.

The North was split, half behind Bolton and the other half behind Baratheon. Until one of those factions fell then it would not be united, not in the same way that it had been under Eddard Stark and his family before him. If Manderly did have Rickon Stark-

Stannis had offered him the post of regent for the young Stark boy, but why would Rickon accept him, considering how he had betrayed the Stark family? Rickon would more than like ask for his head on a plate than let him be the one dealing with issues for the Starks of Winterfell. The northmen may have forgiven him, but surely the two boys that he had wronged would not. His betrayal of Robb and Lord Stark would surely live on in their minds, as it did in his own. He would never be forgiven, not truly.

The walls of Winterfell came into sight then. The gates were open, and the riders sped up to arrive. There they found Lords Whitehill and Ryswell waiting for them. The two lords sunk to one knee before Stannis.

Rodrik Ryswell was a large man with a thick, but short, beard. Theon recognised him from Winterfell. He was a Bolton supporter. His daughter had been married to Roose, before her death. He was no Stannis man.

Lord Whitehill he recognised not from Winterfell, but from Stannis' camp. He had visited them some time ago. Stannis had told him that the Whitehills had switched sides. Him kneeling made some sense, but Ryswell should only be doing it for Roose Bolton or Myrcella Baratheon.

Stannis dismounted, as did Arthor, Farring, Glover, and then Theon. They walked towards the gates. The two men on the floor stayed kneeling. Stannis walked to them, and looked down upon them.

"Two kneeling lords. This is not what I expected to find. They certainly aren't the lords that I wanted to find on their knees. Rise, Lord Whitehill. You, Lord Ryswell, have some explaining to do."

Whitehill rose to his feet. He was a fat man, which was somewhat unusual for the Northernmost Northern lords. He had been sworn to the Dreadfort before his betrayal. Theon was surprised that Stannis trusted him as much as he did. Maybe the King had seen something in him that nobody else had.

Theon and the rest of the lords gathered around Stannis and the knelt Lord Ryswell. Rodrik's eyes were trained on the boots of his king, but did not look up.

"You kneel for me, yet you are Bolton's man, Ryswell. Is this a call for forgiveness, because you shall find that I do not treat traitors with mercy?"

"Your grace, I am no traitor. I was working for you all along. As Lord Manderly would tell you. I am your man, your grace. Right now my sons are risking their lives to fight for your cause!"

Stannis turned his head, and looked to Marlon Manderly, who nodded slightly, indicating that Ryswell could be trusted. Theon wondered why it had taken until now for the men loyal to Stannis inside Winterfell to come forward. He remembered Lord Ryswell's sons. There had been Roger, he was the brave one, and then Rickard, who had lusted after Holly, and Roose, who had been named for Lord Bolton. Who were they fighting?

"Lord Roose Bolton is dead, King Stannis."

Their heads all turned, and Theon saw that they were being approached by gaunt, old Hother Umber, the brother of Mors. He was dressed in battle armour, which had the giant of Umber emblazoned on the chest, and a red cloak flowing behind him. Mors dismounted and walked to his brother. They embraced.

"You must tell a lie, brother. How could the Bolton traitor be dead?"

"Stabbed to death in his bathtub by his own bastard, by the sound of it. That's what witnesses say. The maester applied his leeches, and then left him to soak, when he returned he found him stabbed near fifty times, and the skin peeled from his fingers. The bastard has fled."

Stannis stepped forward.

"Then find him. I would have him burn for what he did to my daughter. I suppose you are another traitor who was on my side all along, Umber?"

Hother Umber nodded at that, and Mors turned to his king.

"We could not tell you, your grace. If we had it could have put the people in Winterfell in danger. You must be careful who you trust."

Stannis inclined his head.

"I understand. What is the situation inside?"

Hother came closer to the king, and stood beside Rodrik Ryswell.

"The Bolton forces put up a fight. The Ryswells and Hornwoods defeated them in the main keep, and secured most of the rooms. House Stout took the Library Tower, and House Hornwood went to secure the Godswood. That's where the last Bolton loyalists are held up. They are led by a man called Skinner. He is the bastard's man."

"Then we must defeat him and take his head. Why do your men not attack him?"

Hother and Mors shared a look then, and Mors turned to Stannis.

"Northmen think it is unlucky to fight in the godswood…"

"The piety of fools."

Farring stepped forward.

"Give me command of the loyalist force and I will bring R'hllors justice and flames to this forest and its rebel inhabitants."

"No flames will be lit in this Godswood, southron, or you can count on the Northern force expelling you from our kingdom."

That was Galbart Glover, with Maege Mormont astride her horse behind him.

"Very well. I shall lead the assault on the Godswood. I will take Marlon Manderly and Ser Richard with me. Lord Farring, ride back and ask for Lord Manderly to send his troops. Lord Glover comes with me. Lady Mormont will go to the Library Tower. Lord Greystark, you will go with Ser Karstark and Mors Umber to Roose Bolton's chambers. I want an account of what happened there."

Theon inclined his head, and Hother stepped forward.

"I shall escort you, Theon Greyjoy."

The various groups departed then, with Whitehill and Ryswell going with Stannis. Theon walked within the walls of Winterfell for the first time since he had been here as Ramsay's Reek. There was an eerie silence about the place, with bodies on the floor and blood stains on the walls, doors and everywhere in between. Hother Umber led the way, and their party moved with sombre silence.

Even the two Umber brothers did not talk. Mors walked behind his sibling. The two of them did not look similar, with Mors being big, brutish and broad shouldered, and Hother being thin, short, and old, with a wrinkled face and dark eyes. His beard was whispy, but long. He looked more intelligent than his brother.

Hother was a strange one. Theon had heard the whispers about him at Winterfell. He was an old man, and twice widowed, but had never had a child. Some said that he preferred the company of men, and that the whore he had killed to earn his title Whoresbane had been a young male. Reek had never believed them. Reek had only listened to Ramsay.

Now Ramsay had murdered his father. Roose had claimed that Ramsay's boys were his own. Skinner, Sour Alyn, Ben Bones. He had said they were spying on Ramsay for him. Had Ramsay found out? Was that why he had done it? Or had he hoped to claim Winterfell as his own, not knowing the treachery that the Umbers, Ryswells, and Hornwoods had been planning. Roose would have suspected. Roose would have known.

"In here."

Hother pointed towards the rooms of Lord and Lady Stark. Of course, they had been taken by him when he had claimed Winterfell, and then Roose had taken them, too. When they stepped in they found three dead in the bedchambers. The first was Sour Alyn, and the second was Grunt. They were Ramsay's men. The third was a maester, dressed in grey rags.

"His name was Henly."

Hother grunted, gesturing to the dead maester.

"He applied Bolton's leeches daily. We found him dead at the hands of these two when we got here. Somebody else had already done them in. The bastard, more than like. They were his men, though the boy was clearly mad. Anyone could see that, Bolton more than others. He did not want him as his heir."

Roose's wife had been pregnant, Theon remembered. Fat Walda Frey they had called her, though never around her or Lord Bolton. He would have had them flayed. He wondered what had happened to her when the castle had been taken. It was only a brief thought, however, as then Hother opened the door to the lord's bathchambers.

The room stank. There was no blood on the floor, though what sat before Theon almost made him be sick. Roose was pale and naked, laid in the bathtub like he was asleep. The water had gone red, however, from the blood. It looked like Lord Bolton had gone to bathe in a bathtub of blood, except that the light in his pale blue icy eyes had gone out.

He had been scarier in life than he was in death, but still Theon hanged back with Hother whilst Mors and Arthor went forward to the body. Mors dragged his body from the tub, and threw it over his shoulder, before carrying him to the door.

"The rest of the Northmen will want to see this. They lost a lot to him and his Freys."

Hother nodded, and Theon did not object. He had lost a lot to the Boltons, too. Fingers and toes and self respect. Stannis was giving him the last back, but he could never return the other things that Ramsay and his father had taken.

The journey back to the courtyard of Wintefell was just as quiet as the one there, except now there was the dripping of water that fell off Bolton's body and onto the floor. They passed two Hornwood men on the way up, who moved to the side for the highborns to pass. They found the courtyard busy. Manderly had arrived with his troops, and Hugo Wull and Morgan Liddle were organising the Northmen in the taking of prisoners. They all turned to look at them as they came out of the main keep, and cheered when Lord Bolton's body was thrown to the floor. Wull whipped out his cock and pissed on the corpse, which was greeted by more cheers. Theon spotted pyres being built outside, and Walda Frey amongst the prisoners. He hoped that Stannis wasn't going to burn her. She was not a bad woman because of the crimes of her husband.

It was a while after that when they received a report from the Godswood. The Boltons had been slain, and their leader taken prisoner. Galbart Glover and Rickard Ryswell had both been killed in the fighting. That news had caused Robett Glover to leave them. Theon understood that.

"Bolton is dead now, but the Bastard is still out there. We should send out raiding parties to look for him."

Hugo Wull's voice boomed to the gathered Northmen. He got cheers from Hornwoods, Liddles, Overtons, and Ryswells. They knew the monster that Ramsay was, so they would clearly be willing to find him and hunt him down. The group then moved to the pyres soon, and found Godry Farring tying three of their prisoners to a pyre. The first was Skinner, who was wounded from the fighting. He spat out at Theon as he passed. The second was Hosteen Frey, who had been taken prisoner at the Battle of the Lake, as the Baratheon followers were calling it. The last was reserved for Ben Bones, another of the Bastard's Boys. He had never been as harsh as the others, but still he deserved this.

He was surprised to find that Damon-Dance-For-Me or Steelshanks Walton on a pyre. Why were they being pardoned by Stannis?

"Theon Greystark?"

He turned, and found the red woman, Lady Melisandre. He was surprised to see her here. She had spent her entire time cooped in her room at Castle Cerwyn. Why was she here? Had she come back to see Ramsay dead? She had suffered at the hands of the bastard, as well. She had reason to be as afraid of Ramsay as he had been. Stannis would help her learn.

"That is me."

"Come with me."

He was surprised by her abruptness, so followed her back within Winterfell. Most of the crowds had cleared out and gone out to witness the burnings. Inside he saw Robett Glover sat on some steps, with Maege Mormont and Larence Snow with him. Then there was Godry Farring talking with Richard Horpe.

Lady Melisandre took him to the kennels, and into the darkness that he had known when he had been here as a prisoner to Ramsay. They passed several kennels, and Theon saw that some of the dogs were gone, with the rest having been shot by arrows. They went further into the darkness, and then he heard whimpering from one of the kennels. When he looked inside he made out the figure of an emaciated boy slumped in the corner. A prisoner.

The Lady Melisandre went to the boy, and pulled him to his feet. He was whole, Theon could see that, but he had been starved, and one of his hands had been removed, his left. The boy wore nothing but a loincloth, and there was sick caught in the short stubble on his chin.

"Devan Seaworth."

Melisandre explained to him.

"I took him as mine at the Wall, to protect him from the war. His father had lost his other sons. I wanted to protect him. I failed and he suffered more than if I had sent him with Stannis."

"How long has he been down here?"

Melisandre shook her head.

"As long as I. I do not know what tortures that R- Ra- Ramsay put him through, but he has suffered much. We should take him to warm chambers and see him dressed."

Just then Theon heard someone behind them. He went for his dagger, though he was unsure what use it would be if Ramsay had been down here, waiting for them to come. It wasn't him, though.

It was the Frey boy that Theon had captured at Winterfell. Big Walder, was it? He was the small one. He had been taken prisoner with Hosteen Frey, but clearly had not been sentenced to the same fate as his uncle.

"Lord Greyj- Lord Greystark. I have been told to fetch you. Your presence is wanted in the main hall. Stannis has called for you."

Theon nodded to the boy, who scampered away, after a brief look in the direction of the boy from the cage. He had always though Big Walder to be the smarter of the two Walders he had captured. He was not surprised that it was he that had lived through the Bolton control of Winterfell and had switched sides.

He looked to Melisandre next.

"Can you take the boy by yourself? Do you need me?"

"Go, Theon Greystark. Look for me soon, however. We have much to talk about. I see an important role in your future."

That confused him. What did the Red Woman know of the future? Had Stannis told her that he intended to name Theon as regent to Rickon Stark? Was that the role that she referred to?

The walk to the main hall of Winterfell was a cold one. The floor was covered in snow, though a lot of it had been reduced to sludge by men trudging through it. It was quieter outside than it had been before. Most of the lords and men had gone inside, and only a few men-at-arms were still outside, with others still watching the three prisoners be burned alive.

"Theon Turncloak."

He turned, and found two women stood behind him. One of them was short and thin, with a ratty face and pinched cheeks. She was not pretty. The other was. She had full, pouty lips, a large bussom, and long matted hair, that, despite the fact that it was unwashed, just made her prettier.

Holly. Holly and Squirrel.

"Did you think me dead, Theon Turncloak? Did you think when I fell that it killed me? The snow broke my fall, as it broke yours. It concealed me from the Boltons. Abel saved me, as he will save you. Stannis Baratheon will name you regent. You cannot let him. You are no kneeler, Theon Turncloak, and you are no high lord now. You are one of us."

Theon was shocked. How could this girl know about Stannis' plans. Had Abel told her? Was that what they had been discussing at Castle Cerwyn?

"I saw you looking to me the other day, Theon Turncloak. Do you want me, boy? Then you must steal me."

"I- I cannot. Ramsay-"

Holly scoffed.

"What did he take, Turncloak? Your member or your balls? Did he take both?"

Ramsay had stripped him of his manliness, but not his manhood. He had taken his balls, flayed them slowly as Theon sobbed. He still felt a twinge in his breeches when he thought of the attractive girls he had bedded in his youth.

"If you want me, Theon Turncloak, then you must take me. You must find me first."

Holly laughed at that, and then the two of them left. What had just happened. Had she been propositioning him? The girl was attractive, but why would she be interested in a broken man like him? He had little to offer her.

After that, he pushed his way through the crowds gathered outside the main hall, until he was there, where Lord Stark had sat so many times, dispensing his justice and wisdom across the North. Now it was Stannis in that seat, with Arthor Karstark and Desmond Grell stood beneath him, their swords drawn.

The lords had taken to the side, but some were knelt before the king. Theon saw Rodrik Ryswell, Barbrey Dustin, Hother and Mors Umber, Hugo Wull, Jonelle Cerwyn, Maege Mormont, and Robett Glover. Wyman Manderly was seated beside the king on the high dais.

"We pledge our allegiance to Winterfell and to Stannis Baratheon."

That was Mors Umber. His brother continued.

"Hearth and harvest we yield to you."

"Our swords and spears and arrows are yours to command."

That was Maege Mormont.

"Grant mercy to our weak."

"Help to our helpless."

"And justice to us all."

The oath was followed by Rodrik Ryswell, Jonelle Cerwyn, and Robett Glover.

"We shall never fail you."

That was Hother again.

"We swear it by earth and water."

Jonelle.

"We swear it by bronze and iron."

Hugo.

"We swear it by ice and fire."

That was all of them in unison. Theon watched on, and Stannis gestured for them to rise, which they did. They stood before the king, and Stannis himself rose, and walked down to them. He stood before them, and he knelt.

"I swear by ice and fire that the North shall not suffer under my role as it did under the Lannister bastard and the Mad King. You have the word of the lawful king. May my sword protect you. May my justice serve you well. May we fight together for this battle, and all the battles to come."

Then he stood, and all the Northern lords nodded their heads to him.

"Come forward, Theon Greystark. You sit on my left."

Theon hobbled down the hall as fast as he could, with the eyes of all the gathered highborns upon him. He saw Godry Farring smirking, and Roose Ryswell weep for his dead brother, silently. There was Big Walder Frey, watching on, and Fat Walda, with a maester by her side. She was not in irons. The Liddles and the Flints called to him, and the Woods and Forresters called chants of support. He had the North, but he did not deserve it.

He walked to Stannis, who took him by the hand and pulled him close.

"Welcome home, Lord Greystark. I trust you saw the burnings outside."

"I did, your grace. It was no less than those men deserved."

Stannis let him go, and Theon climbed to his seat. He saw Wyman Manderly glaring at him, and thought to Holly's words. Why had she wanted him to reject the regency.

"Mors Umber, Larence Snow, Hugo Wull and Morgan Liddle, step forward!"

Stannis called to the men, and they came before him.

"House Bolton is dead, my Lords. Their last lord has perished. All that remains is a bastard who has defied the laws of the realm. I strip the bastard of all titles bestowed upon him by false kings, and legitimise Larence Snow as Lord Hornwood, and grant the Dreadfort to House Umber. I am also disaptaching Houses Wull, Liddle, Norrey, and Flint to track down and bring the bastard before me. I would have the pleasure of killing him myself."

The four men nodded, and left, with Larence Hornwood going back to the crowds, whilst the rest of the men left the hall, along with Artos Flint and Brandon Norrey.

"Robett Glover will succeed his brother, Lord Galbart, who died valiantly today, as Lord of Deepwood Motte. That is all."

Stannis turned away, and went back to his seat, as the hall emptied and the men dispersed. Lord Manderly left too, with his cousin and Ser Desmond, who Stannis had assigned as the Kingsguard to protect the Hand of the King.

Theon rose too, and Stannis nodded to him, indicating that he could also leave. He did so, vacating the hall and exiting back to the courtyard. There he found it bustling, as Bolton prisoners were escorted out of the castle. They were to be taken to Castle Cerwyn, where Lady Jonelle would make sure they were kept under lock and key.

He considered going to find the Lady Melisandre, or Jeyne Poole, but he decided against them. Instead he decided to go the Godswood, where Skinner had been defeated, and where Ned Stark had loved to worship and think.

He found many Northmen here, though most were in silent contemplation, or removing the bodies of the fallen. They started to thin out the further into the wood he got. The trees here had frightened him as a boy, and as Reek, too. These trees held more memories than anything. The girls that he had taken here. Training with Robb in between the trees, where they could use steel without old Rodrik Cassell knowing. Praying to the Old Gods. That was a secret he had kept from them all.

He found a hooded figure knelt before the Heart Tree. He knelt besides them, and turned to look at who it was.

He found her eyes locked on him, too.

Holly.

She raised her knife to his throat.

"I knew you'd come to me, Theon Turncloak. All men do. Now I will steal you, and you will be mine."


	69. Jaime III

Jaime walked. He walked and walked. He wasn't walking anywhere in particular. He had thought about this. He could not return to King's Landing. He had moved on past Cersei and failed Tommen. Why would Cersei and Myrcella forgive him for that? They would not. He could not go to Riverrun, where his aunt Genna had been, for she was dead, and Riverrun was back in the hands of Edmure Tully.

He could try to return home to the Rock, but the Westerlands were crawling with Tully forces. He would never make it without being captured. Whilst in Maidenpool he had heard of the falls of Banefort, Hornvale and the Golden Tooth. Then in Duskendale he had heard more. Greenfield, Deep Den, and Silverhill had all been taken by the Riverlanders. No, there was no way through to Casterly Rock.

And so he was cursed to wander. He wasn't alone, though. He still had Hyle Hunt and Podrick Payne, though he had thought that he had lost them, too, when in Duskendale Hunt was almost tempted by an offer to join the household guard of Lord Rykker, who was recruiting sellswords. Maybe Jaime should have taken up with them. Maybe then his feet would hurt less.

"More trees. More grass. More streams. I grow tired of this, Ser Jaime. We should have stayed at Duskendale, or gone on to Rosby. I hear sellswords are being taken in there, too."

They were five days walk from Duskendale now. Did Hyle really want to track back the entire distance that they had already travelled? No. They could not go back now. Besides, Lord Rykker had bent the knee to Joffrey. He would like as not just hand Jaime back over to Myrcella, and he was trying to avoid that. They should all be.

"We have to keep walking if we want to stay out of the clutches of Tollett, Hunt. We can stop and go back to him, if you want. I'm sure he would be more than willing to oblige to give you a quick way out."

The response to that was a few seconds in coming.

"I'm fine, thanks."

Jaime tried to recall the time that he had spent journeying in the Crownlands and Riverlands before. He had visited Hayford, but the ruler there was a young girl, whose maester would like as not turn him over. There was Harrenhal, but Bonifer Hasty was too pious a man to keep people there. Maybe he could go to Darry and try to seduce Amerei Frey, but the thought repulsed him.

No, walking was his only choice, unless he wanted to go into exile in Essos. They would need to find a ship, but that was a possibility. He remembered that Tyrion had always wanted to visit the Free Cities. Maybe he could spite his brother and do what he had never been able to do. That could hurt Tyrion.

"Riders!"

Hyle had ducked behind a tree when he called, with Podrick behind him. Jaime hadn't been listening, though, and was suddenly confronted by five mounted men. They all dismounted, and put their hands on their steel.

"Who are you? Who do you serve? Are you followers of the Hound or the Lightning Lord?"

The man that spoke was slight, with a blue beetle on his shield. Jaime recognised the sigil as that of House Bettley.

"Tell us where Dondarrion is!"

That command came from a large man, who carried a large sword. He had the Plumm sigil emblazoned on the breast of his armour.

"Or die!"

An even large man charged at him, and threw Jaime to the floor, holding his sword to Jaime's throat. This man wore Crakehall colours. Could it be-

"My name is Ser Jaime Lannister. I squired for Lord Sumner Crakehall as a youth. I am Lord Commander of the Kingsguard."

The sword stayed where it was for a few seconds, and then it was lowered. The man threw it down to the side, and removed his helmet. Then Jaime recognised the thick nose and large face of Lyle Crakehall, who laughed boomingly. The other men removed their helms, and Jaime recognised Beardless Jon Bettley and Ser Harwyn Plumm. What were they doing so far from Darry?

"Ser Jaime! I did not think to see you here! I heard you had been slain by the treacherous riverlords! I mourned deeply!"

Lyle offered Jaime a hand, and Jaime accepted it, being pulled to his feet. He looked around, and gestured for Hunt and Podrick to join them, though Bettley and Plumm still raised their swords when they came into sight.

"Who would these two be?"

"My friends, Lyle. Ser Hyle Hunt and Podrick of House Payne. They are both good."

Lyle laughed, and embraced the Payne boy.

"Any friend of Jaime Lannister is a friend to me. Why do you travel with a knight of the Reach, Lannister? Tell us of your adventures!"

The last thing that Jaime wanted to do was humour Crakehall, but he could be a way of getting out of the monotony of their travels.

"I was saved from death by a woman, Crakehall. She took me to the Vale, and then I was sent here, after the capture of Petyr Baelish."

"A woman? Pray tell, what wench is capable of saving Ser Jaime Lannister from the jaws of death?"

A thought crossed Jaime's mind then. If Crakehall and his companions had been journeying across the Riverlands then maybe they had met Brienne. Maybe they would be able to help him find her? Or to tell him if she was safe?

"Lady Brienne of Tarth. Have you seen here? I wish to give her my thanks."

Crakehall laughed again at that. It really was booming. Jaime felt a pain in his ears, because he was stood too close. He even saw Podrick wince.

"I bet you want to give her thanks, and more besides. The wench must be a lucky one to have the affections of Ser Jaime Lannister. I have not had the pleasure of seeing her, though."

Curses. He had been hoping that they would find her at Maidenpool, or Duskendale. She hadn't been there. Maybe she was dead, who knows. Maybe the woman that she had warned him about had found her. He hoped that wasn't true.

"Do you wish to ride with us to Darry, Ser Jaime? I am sure Lady Amerei would be willing to let you and your companions stay. You can help us track down the Hound and kill him."

So Crakehall still hadn't found the dog, then. Brienne had told him that Sandor Clegane was dead, and that the person that had sacked Saltpans had been another that had taken his helmet from the Hound's grave. If this was untrue, however, he was unsure what use he would be against Clegane. He was still poor with his weaker hand. The Hound would kill him in seconds.

Having said that, neither of Jon Bettley or Lyle Crakehall would hold themselves long against the Hound. Bettley was slight and fast, but the dog was quicker than he looked, and was more savage and strong than even Lyle Crakehall. Of these men, only Harwyn Plumm could match blades with Clegane.

He turned, and looked to Hyle and Podrick. Both of them would do well at Darry. Should he go with them?

"My companions would be delighted to join you. I still have a mission."

"Then let us escort you. Where are you heading, my Lord?"

Jaime bowed his head, and closed his eyes. Where was he going?

"I am returning to King's Landing, Crakehall. Lady Amerei needs you with her, protecting Darry from Clegane and Dondarrion. I will be able to get back safe enough."

Crakehall nodded, and the men all mounted their horses, with Podrick and Hyle sharing one of the spares.

"I guess this is the end of our travels, Ser Jaime."

Hyle reached down, and Jaime clasped his hand. They shook.

"Live long, Hyle Hunt. You have done well by me."

"Tell Lady Brienne where I am when you find her. The wench may not be the prettiest, but I would like to see her again. She is more a warrior and a knight than I ever have been."

And with that they were gone. They rode off into the forests. Jaime was alone. Where was he going? Obviously he had lied to Lyle. He would never be welcomed back in King's Landing. He could not go there.

He slumped down at the base of a tree, and thought. If only Brienne was here. She would know what to do. She would know where to go to protect them both. Maybe he could go to Rosby, and look for work there, or Stokeworth. What lord would take in a knight without a hand? He was of no use to any of those lords or their cause.

In Maidenpool, he had heard rumours about a dragon at Storm's End. He claimed to be the son of Prince Rhaegar. He had never been as close to the Crown Prince as Arthur Dayne or Oswell Whent, but the two had been on cordial terms. The boy would never forgive him for his crime of murdering the Mad King and saving lives, however. He would have his head as soon as look at it, as would Stannis Baratheon, the dour cunt in the North.

"Where are you, Brienne?!"

He looked to the sky, hoping to see some sign of what he should do. He saw something a flock of nine birds flying through the sky, to the south. Then two of them fell, and then they were all gone. What could that have meant? Why did gods always talk in riddles? He closed his eyes

"Are you some sort of mad cunt?"

The voice startled Jaime, who looked up and saw a horrific, burned face. There was a giant standing over him, and then he recognised it. There were few men in Westeros that ugly. His brother had been one, and Sandor Clegane another. The Hound stood over him.

"Go on. Are you?"

"I- You-"

Clegane snorted.

"So you're a dumb mad cunt. Fucking great."

Jaime jumped to his feet, and fumbled for the sword at his belt, but he was sent flying through the air by a slap from the Hound. When he looked up, he found that Clegane had his sword drawn, and was pointing it in his direction. Two more men had appeared behind him. Clegane pressed the point of the sword to Jaime's throat.

"You look familiar. Do I know you, fucker?"

Would he kill him if he revealed his identity? The dog had abandoned Joffrey during the Blackwater. He had no love for Lannisters or knights.

"Jaime. Jaime Lannister."

"The Kingslayer?"

One of the other men stepped forward then. He was Northern.

"What do we do with him, Clegane?"

Sandor didn't respond for a few seconds. He was clearly thinking.

"He is a valuable prisoner. We can take him and put him with the rest."

Clegane sheathed his sword, and instead drew Jaime's, looking it up and down, before allowing the Northerner and the other man, a younger boy with thick muscles, to grab him and drag him along.

They weren't walking for long before they reached some sort of camp. Jaime recognised Lothor Brune, a sellsword of some renown, before he was thrown into a group of men all seated in the grass. He recognised some of these, too.

There was Steffon Swyft, the heir to Cornfield. Why was he here? What kind of prisoners was the Hound taking?

"Ser Jaime Lannister?"

He turned then, and found another familiar face seated to his left. He was an older man, with a kind face and kind eyes. He had been a bloody mummer once, but had put that behind him and become important at court in King's Landing. He had gained Cersei's trust. What was he doing here?

"Qyburn?"

"The very same. I heard you were dead."

"You heard wrong."

Just then a cold shadow passed over Jaime. He looked up to see Sandor Clegane stood over him. There was a grimace on his face, although that was always there. The Hound had plenty of anger penned up inside him.

"What are you doing so far from King's Landing, Lannister?"

"I was at Riverrun, lifting the siege. Then I- I travelled to the Vale. I was returning home when you found me. I must retake my post on the Kingsguard."

Sandor spat on the ground.

"You're lying, Lannister. I know you. I watched you for years at the capital. You weren't going back any more than I am. You broke your oaths just like I did. Joffrey was a cunt. Fuck him."

Jaime nodded. Joffrey had been his son, but he had grown up rotten. He was twisted in the mind, like Aerys, and did monstrous things. The great oaf that call himself his father didn't help. Where was the role model there?

"I am looking for a woman. Brienne of Tarth. Have you seen her?"

"Aye. I know the name. I saw her on an island, but she did not see me. I have not seen her since then, though."

Where were you, Brienne?

"We are riding to Rosby. We intend to sell the four of you over to the ward there. If he won't take you then we go to Stokeworth. I hear some sellsword cunt is lord there, now. A friend of your brother."

Jaime bristled at the mention of Tyrion. He had killed their father. He had killed his son.

Sandor left them then, and Jaime closed his eyes and tried to think. Steffon Swyft kept whimpering, and the other man, a handsome looking youth that Jaime thought he had seen somewhere before, was sharpening a stick with another stick.

"You could serve as regent, you know? If we got you back to the capital then you would just have to make Myrcella name you to the post. She has always favoured you, has she not? Your sister has been driven to near madness."

That was Qyburn. What was the bloody maester playing at. What was his game here?

"How did that happen then? Did you drive here there? Was that your plan for power? To make it easier to control her?"

Truth be told, he had no reason to be angry with the man, but he wanted to lash out at someone. He felt a sudden anger inside him, and the maester was there. He wanted this. He grabbed the man by the throat, and pinned him to the ground.

"Did you do it on purpose? Did you do it? Why? Why?!"

He put on ever more pressure. He heard the calls for him to stop, and the whimpers of the man in his hands, but as he looked down all he could see was Tyrion. He could see his ugly scarred face. His mismatched eyes. His smug smile. He felt hands on him, trying to pull away, but he did not let go until he felt the breaths stop in the man's throat, and the life to from his body.

The man was limp as he was pulled away, and Jaime laughed.


	70. Sansa V

Sansa stared at the reflection of herself in the mirror. There were no bruises or blotches on her face from where Joffrey's Kingsguard had beaten her. Her hair was the auburn colour of the Tullys of Riverrun, her mother's house. Her skin was pale and settled, and her eyes brighter. Her blue eyes were vivid and stuck out. She was beautiful, but that was because he deserved that. He was a better man than Joffrey, or Baelish, or Shadrich. He was pure and perfect.

She had known monsters, and she had stared into their souls. She could recognise them now. Aegon was not one of them. She was determined that he would be hers, and then he would keep her safe from all the vile things in this world, and she would give him a list of those who had wronged her, and he would get her justice. She would have him find Lothor Brune and Mya Stone and they could serve her at court, with Harwin and Sandor, and Myranda too, if she would come. Aegon would make everything alright.

Today was her wedding day. He would wrap the cloak of House Targaryen and she would be wed once again, but this time by choice. She would wear his crown and bare his children, just as her mother had promised her with Joffrey. This time she wasn't with a monster, however.

"Lady Sansa."

She turned and found Arianne Martell stood in the door to her rooms. The Princess of Dorne had larger breasts than Sansa, and she was shorter, too, but still beautiful and radiant. Many of the men at Storm's End favoured her, though few were highborn enough to take her hand in marriage.

"You look very pretty. Are you ready for the big day?"

Sansa nodded at that, and then sat down on the bed. Arianne picked up a brush from the bedside table and started to comb through Sansa's hair. She enjoyed it when they spent time together like this.

Sansa stared out of the window. It looked out over the bay below Storm's End. She had asked for that. She did not want to look upon the mountains that Shadrich had brought her through. There were too many bad memories there. She did not need reminding of them, for they were fresh in her mind.

The water outside was usually broiling and scary, but today it was quiet and flat, for there was little wind. It was almost as if the gods themselves had taken a break to celebrate her special day, and her union to her one true prince. That made her happy.

"Are you ready for the bedding ceremony?"

That comment removed the smile from Sansa's face. She had been avoiding thinking of what would happen after she wedded her prince. She had been bedded with Tyrion, but he had not taken her virtue. The singer, Marillion, had tried to rape her in the Vale, but Lothor Brune had saved her, as Sandor Clegane had saved her from the rapers in King's Landing.

It had been Shadrich that had broken her. How could she sleep with her beautiful king if she no longer had her maidenhead? How could he want a spoiled girl with no family, no home, and no virtue? She was not worthy of him.

"It will go well. Back in Dorne, a girl loses her maidenhead at fourteen, and most before they are wed. It is not unusual there."

Arianne talked a lot about the liberties that the Dornish held. Sansa found it strange. She had never been taught of the Dornish laws by Septa Mordane or her mother. She found the customs strange. Daughters inherited ahead of sons sometimes, and bastards were more acknowledged. That had made her feel worse for the way that she had treated Jon Snow, her bastard half-brother.

The Martells had ruled over Dorne since the landing of the Rhoynar and the wedding of the Lady Nymeria to Mors Martell. Together they had fought and defeated most of the Dornish kings. They had remained kings for longer than all of the other Westerosi kings, defying the dragon conqueror and his subjects, before joining the Seven Kingdoms peacefully many years later.

She remembered seeing Prince Oberyn Martell around the Red Keep for a short time. Petyr had told her that he had been killed shortly after she left. That was what had pushed the Dornish towards war, apparently.

Just then there was a knock that came on the door. Bryce Cafferen stepped in. He was an ugly man, though kind at heart. He wasn't as smart as Tyrion, or as strong as Clegane, but he was loyal and well meaning. She liked him. He reminded her of Lothor Brune. Aegon had named him as her protector. He was more a knight of the Kingsguard than Meryn Trant or Mandon Moore. Bran would have liked him.

"The Hand wishes to see you before the ceremony, my lady. He has told me to bring you to him."

Sansa nodded, and rose from the bed. She thanked Arianne, and embraced her newest friend, before following Ser Bryce out of her chambers and through the corridors of Storm's End, to the chambers that had been taken by Aegon's Hand of the King, Lord Jon Connington.

Her father had told her a story of Jon Connington once, and how he had fought and defeated him at Stoney Sept in the Riverlands. He had called Jon a good man, with more honour than the king that he had served, but Sansa could not see it. The man was dour and gruff, and she disliked him, for he had made no effort to befriend her, as the other followers of Aegon had.

She had talked with Harry Strickland, the fat man who oversaw the Golden Company, and whilst she had not grown close or fond of him, she had found he was an amiable man. She had befriended Arianne, and even Gerald Gower had made an effort, though she found him bluff and to the point. He was clearly uncomfortable around other people.

Gower was the sworn guardian and protector of the bastard, Edric Storm, who had arrived at Storm's End after Arianne but before Sansa herself. Aegon had been just, and pardoned him for his father's crimes, and had taken him as a squire, with the intention of making him Lord of Storm's End when he grew old enough.

There were others, of course. Rolland Storm had returned shortly after her, though he was almost as dour as Connington. Gorys Edoryen scared her, with his corpse-like appearance, and Lysono Maar, who was almost always with Strickland, was suave and cool, with a quick tongue and hair almost as beautiful as Aegon's.

Jon Connington was not these men.

His rooms were sparsely decorated. They had belonged to Stannis Baratheon when he was a child, and were the fourth largest chambers in the castle. Aegon slept in the Lord's chambers, of course, with Strickland and Arianne in the next largest, though Arianne often slept with Sansa in her bed.

What little decoration there had been had been replaced with maps of the Seven Kingdoms and markers on them, to indicate armies or strategic castles. The Stormlands was full of markers of castles that had surrendered or switched sides to Aegon. There were a few of these markers in the Reach, as well.

Connington himself was seated at his desk, writing a letter on a piece of parchment. A maester stood beside him. His arms crossed in his wide, grey sleeves. She tried to remember his name. Yandel? He had been a friend of some half maester that had taught Aegon, and had sailed in a few days after she had arrived.

"Send this to your friend, Yandel. Tell him that Daenerys Targaryen should stay in the east. Aegon has found a wife of his own."

"He is not my friend, my lord. Marwyn is my mentor and tutor. What is to stop young Aegon from taking two wives, as the Conqueror did?"

Jon grimaced. He disliked being questioned.

"The Faith. They disliked Aegon Targaryen for doing that, and his son Maegor, too. I do not want to give them reason to dislike Aegon and rise against him. We may need the support of this High Sparrow when we move to take the capital. He holds a great influence over the people of the city."

Yandel nodded at that, and then left. He bowed slightly to Sansa as he passed her, and then was gone. That left her alone with Connington, who indicated for her to sit. She did.

"Today is the day that you marry Aegon, Lady Stark. He is no twisted dwarf, or bastard boy king. He is the mightiest of princes, and will rule the Seven Kingdoms for years to come. Do you think yourself worthy of wedding such as him?"

"I do?"

Jon scowled.

"Do not lie to me, girl. Your father may have beaten me in battle, but I am no fool. I can see in your eyes that you are troubled. What is it?"

Should she talk with Lord Connington about her innermost thoughts? What could this man possibly do for her. He was old and unmarried. How could he understand what she was going through?

"I love my king, Lord Hand. He is the one true king of Westeros, and with me I bring the backing of the North. Would you want more of me? I shall give myself to him body and soul. You may watch it, if that is what you fancy."

That caused the lord to flush red, more with embarrassment than anger, she thought. The red hair on his chin bristled at the accusation. She had found that the quickest ways to upset men was through questioning their sexual habits. This would hopefully encourage him to move on from this subject.

"Yes, well- He- You- I do not care for being disrespected, girl. I am the Hand of the King."

Sansa rose to her feet and turned to him. Her eyes were cold. In him she saw no Tywin or Tyrion. This man was a hardened warrior, not a politician. He was more like Sandor Clegane than she would have thought. They were both twisted, tortured creatures.

"And today I will become your queen. You best learn my name soon, Lord Hand, or I will have to whisper new names for your post into my beloved's ear."

Jon Connington was stunned into silence at that, and Sansa swept away from him, and out through the door. She found Bryce Cafferen stood outside, waiting for her, as she knew he would be.

"Take me to Arianne. It is time that I readied myself properly, Ser Bryce."

She had talked with Arianne often over the last few weeks as to how she would look for the day that she married Aegon. They had brought in some of the spinstresses of Storm's End, and had settled on a grey and white dress, with the howling wolf of Stark sewn over the shoulder. It was a beautiful thing, and fit Sansa perfectly. As Arianne flitted around her, she looked at herself and thought of the family that would be missing.

Father would not be able to give her away. Mother, who had often talked of how special this day would be, was not here. Robb, Bran and Rickon, who she thought would all be like brothers with her husband, were all dead, and Jon Snow was too, like as not. Even Arya. She even missed Arya.

Ser Rodrik would not be able to watch on uncomfortably, or Vayon Poole worry about the costs, or Fat Tom and Harwin get too drunk on ale. There was no Jeyne Poole or Beth Cassell to gossip with before the ceremony. There was no Gage to cook them up a fine winter feast. They were all dead. She was alone.

The last Stark.

"You are ready, Sansa. We should go."

Sansa nodded, and left the room. Outside, Ser Bryce had changed into his formal wear. He was dressed in full plate armour, with his finest flowing white cloak. He wore his helmet, too. He silently nodded to the queen, and they began to walk towards the sept. Aegon had offered to have the ceremony in the remnants of the Godswood, but the burned trees had made her sad. They reminded her of father.

Arianne held her dress as they entered the building. It was Loras the took her arm and led her down the aisle. She had chosen him, for he knew her better than the other men. She spotted familiar faces as they walked. There was Harry Strickland and Marq Mandrake, who had a hole in his cheek. Urswyck, the leader of the Brave Companions, was wearing his finest clothes, yet still looked out of place, Rolland Caron was dressed in yellow and black, a scowl on his face, as there always was, and Titus Peake stood at the front of the Reach force.

Then she saw Lord Connington, and then she saw her prince. He had his back to her at the top of the steps, and was dressed in the fineries of House Targaryen. He was black and red, and looked as handsome as ever.

As he turned to look for her, she saw the flash of his eyes, and then his smile, and she melted. She was his. Loras ducked away after she was stood by her prince, and Arianne followed him. Aegon took her hands, and the Septon started to speak.

"My lords and ladies. We are gathered today to unite the great houses of Targaryen and Stark in marriage. Stood before me is King Aegon Targaryen, the Sixth of His Name, and Sansa Stark, the rightful Lady of Winterfell, in the eyes of the gods and of true men. King Aegon, please place the cloak of your house around the shoulders of your bride."

Aegon gently hooked the cloak around her, stroking her cheek tenderly as he did. There was love in his eyes that had never been there with Joffrey or Tyrion. He clearly cared for her. He was her perfect prince. He was the man of the stories that her mother had used to tell her, Bran and Arya.

She stood before him then, dressed in her white and grey dress, but with the red and black cloak around her shoulders. Aegon took her hand, and cradled it gently. The septon continued.

"May the Father watch over the husband, and make him ever just and faithful, and the mother watch over the bride, and keep her true. May the smith forge the bond between them, and the Warrior give the husband strength to protect his wife. May the crone offer wisdom, and the maiden offer fertility, and may the Stranger stay his hand and let these two live long, happy lives together."

That caused a cheer from the gathered crowd, and a kiss for her from Aegon. He had met her lips before, in secret moments when he had escaped from Connington and she from Cafferen and Arianne, but never like this. Before he had been clumsy and sweet, but now he was confident and forceful, yet tender to. She melted into him again.

Then he walked her back down the aisle and out of the sept, over to the main hall of the castle, never letting go of her hand once. They sat themselves on the two high seats, with a longer running table below them, and then four even longer tables running the length of the hall. She found Daeron Lonmouth and Hugo Bolling already stood at their posts, as knights of the Kingsguard should be. Aegon seated her, and held her hand still as the rest of the nobles and guests filed in for the feast.

Seated below them were the high profile attendants. Jon Connington, the Hand of the King, Harry Strickland, Titus Peake, Ser Ryland Penrose, Lord Urswyck, Arianne Martell, Rolland Storm, and Loras Tyrell. Penrose was the heir to the old Lord Penrose, his second son, and Peake was the nominal leader of the Reach men. The Brave Companions and the Golden Company shared one of the long tables, whilst the stormlanders held another two, and then the men of the Reach the final of the four.

She was not concerned with them, though. She was focussed on her husband, the King. He was better than Robert or Joffrey Baratheon, and had none of the madness of his father or grandfather. Rhaegar Targaryen had been a madman that had started a war for nothing more than lust. He had raped Sansa's aunt to death. She was glad that Shadrich had never got that far.

"Arianne tells me that you are nervous."

She turned and looked into his eyes. They were kind and warm. She flushed. How could Arianne have told on her like that?

"I understand if you do not want a bedding ceremony. No-one should go through what that man put you through, my beloved. He was a vile monster. If you would rather we wait, then I shall wait until the Wall melts for you. I am prepare to do that."

She blushed even more. He had such a way with words. He was truly everything that she could ever have wanted. She didn't know what she had seen in Joffrey, now that she looked at Aegon.

"I- I do not wish to ask that of you. I want to please you, my love."

Aegon inclined his head, and smiled softly.

"And I you, my Lady. I do not want to wrong you, however. If you are not ready-"

Sansa squeezed his hand gently, and looked to Arianne, who was deep in some bawdy conversation with Ser Ryland and Lord Titus, whilst Rolland Storm listened on with some distaste.

"Maybe- Maybe we could ask Princess Arianne into our wedding bed. She knows more about this topic than either of us. She could help us, I feel."

Aegon did not flinch at the proposition, and instead he kissed her again, more gently this time, and to the cheers of those gathered. His lips were so soft, and his hands caressed her face with some tenderness.

"Whatever makes you most comfortable, my Queen."

Yes, she was queen now. The thought hadn't even crossed her mind. She was determined that she would be a better queen than Cersei had been. She was ready for this repsonsibilty. She would be loyal and true to her husband, as the septon had said.

Aegon rose then, and everyone in the room rose for him. He commanded their respect. That was something she had never seen at King's Landing with Joffrey or Tyrion. This was more like Tywin Lannister, although Aegon was less feared and more beloved. These people saw him as their rightful king, which he was.

"I hope you enjoy the feast, my lords and knights. I have had the finest foods prepared for you, to celebrate this great occasion. I must now retire with my lady wife, for it has been a long day. Lord Connington, Lady Arianne, I would ask you both to come with us. We have matters to discuss."

Aegon took her hand then, and led her from the room. She was glad that he had spared her being stripped by the men present. She was not sure she could handle any man's hands but Aegon's on her soft skin tonight.

Aegon stopped just out of the room, and turned to Connington.

"We have heard no word from Tarth about your betrothed. We cannot wait for Lord Selwyn forever. Send him a raven, and tell him to call his levies and bring them to me. We must march on King's Landing as soon as we can. The little queen is settling herself on the throne. We do not want that."

Connington nodded, and strode off, no doubt to find Maester Yandel and have him pen the letter and send it away. Aegon then turned to Arianne.

"I know this is unusual, Princess, but me and my bride have a request of you."

Arianne smiled her wicked smile, and Sansa knew that she had agreed. Arianne sometimes reminded her of Myranda Royce from the Vale. They embraced their promiscuity, and were not ashamed of it. She admired that in the both of them. That took courage.

Aegon led them to the lord's chambers. His rooms were much larger than hers, and were sparsely decorated. The Baratheon tapestries that had been in here had been torn down and burned the moment that her dragon took the castle, she heard. The bed was made ready for them, and Arianne went straight to it. The Dornish woman removed her silk dress, and revealed her figure.

Her breasts were larger than Sansa's, and had the same olive colour as her face. The nipples were large and dark, as were the hairs around her womanhood. Despite her short stature she had a lithe form, and wickedness in her eyes, as she beckoned to Sansa.

"Come on, my queen. Would it help you if I look away?"

She turned to Aegon, and found that he had his eyes closed firm.

"What are you doing, husband?"

She could finally call him that! Her heart did a little flutter.

"I do not wish anyone's body but yours be the first I gaze upon as a married man, my lady."

Arianne nodded and crawled underneath the sheets, watching the two of them intently. Sansa took her husbands hands and guided it to the place where her dress was tied. She helped his nimble fingers undo the string, and it fell to the floor. She stood before him, naked. He opened her eyes, and then he kissed her. She could feel her breasts pressing up against him, and she kissed him back.

She removed his shirt next, and then his breeches, until she could see his manhood, stood hard before her. It was smoother than Tyrion's had been, and prettier too. She liked it, she thought, just looking at it.

"You will not do well bedding each other if you spend the night stood staring at each other. Come, join me in the sheets, and I will show you how a king and a queen should make love."

Sansa joined Arianne, though it was her husband who seemed unsure. As she laid herself down next to her friend, she felt Arianne's hand on her cheek, as she gently turned Sansa's head, and fit their lips together. She had never thought of kissing a girl before. She had thought it wrong and unholy, but Arianne said that it happened all the time in Dorne. She supposed it was alright. Arianne had large lips, and they were soft against hers.

Then she felt Aegon lay beside her, and she was kissing him instead. Arianne gently took her hand in hers and moved it to Aegon's manhood. She shied away from it at first, and then she took it in her hand, gingerly. It felt warm and slick. It was longer than she had expected, but thinner than Tyrion's. She started to stroke gently, and Aegon started to moan.

"He wants to be inside you, my queen."

"I do not know how I do that. I do not want him inside me like he was."

Arianne took her in her hands gently.

"Then you go on top of him. You ride him like a horse. That is how we do it in Dorne. Men prefer it, and you get to look into their eyes as they feel the pleasure you give them."

Arianne helped her position herself, and then helped Aegon ease himself inside her. Sansa was not as tight as she should have been, and he fit inside her well enough. She went up and down on him, with her hands on her hips helping her do so. She stared to feel pleasure from the motion, and felt herself getting wetter around him. Arianne kissed her as she did it. On her cheeks and her lips, and nipping at her neck. She started to moan.

Aegon released his manly juices inside her, but still they carried on going, until she released too. Arianne laid her on her side then, and rode Aegon, too. It took Sansa a while to build up the confidence to kiss Arianne as she did, and then kiss Aegon as he was pleasured by another woman. This was for the both of them. She knew that Aegon loved her. He said her name as he released again, inside Arianne this time.

They took it in turns to take him for another two hours, and then Arianne slinked away, satisfied. Sansa was left alone with her husband, to finally enjoy the pleasures that a man could give properly, and she enjoyed them very much.


	71. Patrek VI

Patrek rode his horse through the streets of Lannisport. Beside him were Tytos Blackwood and Brynden Tully. The city had burned. He had hoped he could have got here first and spared it the brunt of the damage, but in fact Karyl Vance and Marq Piper had hit the city before anyone else, with Gerion Chambers and Theomar Smallwood joining them. They had spared the city nothing. The people had suffered, and the city had been devastated.

Now he was being led through the city in an official capacity, heading towards Casterly Rock, which had surrendered itself to the Tully force in an aim to stop the devestation. That hadn't worked. The Lannister garrison had been almost entirely wiped out.

He looked around at the people that had gathered to watch them pass. Most of them were women and children. Husbands and fathers had gone away to war and had never returned. He saw one girl who was bloody and had clearly been beaten, and maybe raped. She was seven years old. He closed his eyes, to stop any tears from forming in them. He was worried he might cry.

These people were not the Brave Companions or Gregor Clegane's men. They had not participated in the destruction of the Riverlands. Attacking them for the crimes of the lord that they happened to be sworn to was wrong.

"We should have ridden faster. We could have stopped this."

Blackwood turned to him then. There was a hard look in his eyes.

"This is war, Mallister. People die and people suffer. That is the way that it is."

He hanged his head at that. He didn't want to come across as weak or naïve. He just wanted to get to the Rock so that he could get this over with. He wanted to return to Seagard.

He dismounted from his horse as they prepared to enter the base of Casterly Rock. This was truly one of the mightiest castles in the Seven Kingdoms. The rock it was built into stood more than two thousand feet off the ground, and the bulk of the castle was built within it, with mines beneath ground level. This was the reason behind the famous Lannister riches.

They found Karyl Vance waiting at the gates for them, with Lord Norbert Vance, who was blind, and his second son, Hugo Vance, who Edmure had named as the Lord of Harrenhal. Patrek was slightly surprised to find him alive. The curse of Harrenhal hadn't take him yet, then.

He disliked two of the three men. Nortbert was unobjectionable, but his son had a false arrogance ever since he had been named lord, and Karyl was hungry for Lannister blood to avenge his father, who had died early in the war.

"You arrive at last, Ser Patrek! Last we heard you were at Castamere and on your way to join us. You took longer than we expected!"

Patrek dismounted his horse, and handed it to a young boy who ran forwards to take it.

"Well, I have women and children in my war party, Vance. My group could not ride as fast as yours. That is just as well. I would not have liked to partake in what has happened here."

"Curse your honour, Mallister. Where is the wench that our king entrusted you with? Should she not be here with you?"

"She is riding into the city with Ser Olyvar Frey as her guardian. That way she will be safer. I could not be sure that our first party would not come under attack from the people who suffered under your hand."

Karyl laughed at that. He had a slightly sardonic, mocking laugh. Yet another thing that Patrek didn't like about him.

"The people here know who their new masters are, believe me. They would not dare attack you for fear that I would order that their city be sacked again."

"You are in command here then?"

A wicked smile crossed over Karyl's face.

"You didn't hear then? Our king is here, Patrek. He rode in the moment that he heard of the fall of the city, with Lords Bracken, Paege, Piper, and Ser Ronald Vance. He has taken residence in the lord's chambers."

Edmure was here? Last Patrek had heard he had taken up in the Golden Tooth, at the hospitality of Lady Lefford. It made sense that he would want to switch that out for the Rock, the richest and strongest castle in the West.

"And what of the defenders of the castle? There were highborns here, correct?"

"Yes. Damion Lannister was the castellan. Ser Addam Marbrand, Tybolt Crakehall, and Humfrey Swyft commanded the garrison. Swyft died in the sack of the city. The other three are our prisoners."

Patrek nodded at that, and then thought for a few seconds.

"Have my friends escorted to their rooms. I would talk with these prisoners before I go to mine. Have one of your men take me to them."

Karyl smirked.

"As you say, my lord. Is there anything my lord would desire of me?"

Patrek pushed beyond the man. He did not care for being mocked by men such as Karyl Vance. He was a butcher more than he was a knight. It was Ser Hugo that blocked him next.

"You should not act so aggressively to Ser Karyl. He has the favour of our king, Mallister. You and your father do not."

"I have known Edmure near all my life, Vance. I do not need to be lectured on him by someone who has known him less time than a dwarf knows the touch of a woman, or a Lannister knows what it means to be poor. Stand aside, and let me pass."

Hugo looked as if he wanted to fight, until his father stepped forward.

"There has never been bad blood between Vance and Mallister before. Your father is a good man, Ser Patrek. I am sure my son meant you no disrespect."

Patrek pushed past the two men. Three Vances was three too many. Karyl was a butcher, Hugo was a fool, and Norbert was little more than the man trying to clean up their mess. He hated them all. They epitomised what was wrong with Edmure and his invasion. They pushed him to do worse and worse things. They were hungry for blood and hungry for war.

He wished to talk with Edmure, but not yet. He wanted to see this Marbrand knight first. Ashemark had fallen to the Tully forces, but Lord Damon, Addam's father, still roamed free. The knight was at risk.

The prisons of Casterly Rock were deep underneath the earth. They were a dark place, with the sound of running water from some underground stream that flowed out of the hills and into the Sunset Sea. There were Tully men on guard here. Another Vance. Patrek sighed.

"Who goes there? A Lannister?"

"No Lannister, Ser Ellery. I am Patrek of the House Mallister. I have just met your father, brother and cousin. They said that I could see the Marbrand and Crakehall prisoners."

Ellery Crakehall was the middle of Norbert Vance's children. He was twenty and five years of age, with a hooked nose, and long, black hair, that fell to his shoulder in curls. His eyes were dark, though Patrek couldn't make them out properly in the dark. There were two Vance men behind him.

"I heard you were joining us at last, Mallister. You, Lord Tytos, the Blackfish and that Frey boy."

"Ser Olyvar is as much a knight as either of us, Ellery. You should give him the respect that he deserves."

Ellery didn't respond to that, but also didn't move so that Patrek could move. What was it with Vances and getting in his way today?

"I am here to see Ser Addam Marbrand and Ser Tybolt Crakehall. Stand aside."

"You do not have permission-"

Patrek grabbed Ellery by the scruff of his shirt, and slammed him against the walls of the passage. He heard the Vance men go for their swords.

"I have seen the bravery of House Vance out there on my ride in. I am no little girl, or widowed grandmother. Do you think you could butcher me as easily as you did them? Let me pass, or I will kill you, Vance. You and your men, too."

Would Ellery try him, or would he be wise?

The Vance boy nodded to his companions who sheathed their swords. Patrek dropped him to the floor, and then walked on, without saying anything else. He could hear the sound of running, and then there was a slow clapping from one of the cells.

"How very brave and gallant of you, Ser Patrek of House Mallister. What a true knight you are. Are you here to tell me that my father has been captured and slain?"

He turned, and found who he assumed to be Addam Marbrand at the bars of his cage. He walked over to him. He was a rangy man, with long legs and arms. He was thin, though, and didn't have much bulk to him. His hair had been cut short, but Patrek could see that it was a dark copper colour. His eyes were copper, too.

"Marq Piper comes down here everyday to update me, but he just tells me lies to torture me. What is your purpose?"

"Your father is still on the run. I am asking you to get him to stand down. I will talk with Edmure, and see you released if you can do that. None of us desire for the extinction of House Marbrand."

"Tell that to most of your riverlander friends. They would quite happily see my family destroyed, and my father's head on a pike for protecting his home. Your king is irrational. He would not listen to you."

Patrek shuffled his feet. Addam was right. He couldn't be sure that Edmure would listen to him. How much was he now trusted? He had betrayed Edmure's orders by not executing Gawen Westerling. That was partly why he was avoiding confronting him. If he could resolve the Damon Marbrand problem then maybe everything would be forgiven.

"My father is a good man, Mallister. He watched his home be burned after my brother surrendered it peacefully. What would you do to the man who took your family home? Would you kill him? Would you hang him liked he hanged people you had known from birth? My brother surrendered the castle peacefully, and your man had him killed."

"He was not my man. I spared Quenten Banefort and Gawen Westerling, and they fought me. I would have spared your brother. I will spare your father, too, if he surrenders to me."

Addam thought for a few seconds, and then let go of the bars of his cage. He kicked a sack of something in the corner, and the sack made a noise. It rose from the ground, and Patrek was confronted with a large man with a thick, brown beard, and large muscles.

"What do you have to say to Tybolt, then? What offer do you have for him?"

"One of the men under my command is a Frey. I propose to send you under his command so that your father can surrender Crakehall to me and not one of the more bloodthirsty men. Your family would be spared, same as Marbrands."

Tybolt didn't speak for a few seconds. Patrek wondered if he was dumb. He knew that the Crakehalls had a reputation for being stronger with their muscles than their wits. Maybe this one was just the same as the others.

"Your man is a good man? He is honest? You are honest?"

"I am true to my word, as is he. I trust him to do well by you."

Addam scoffed at that.

"You are more fool than I thought if you think you can trust a Frey. Your wolf king did that, and how did it fare for him? He died, and his mother, too."

"I need no reminders of the atrocities committed by House Frey, Ser Marbrand. I was there, at the wedding of my liege to a Frey girl. I was a prisoner at the Twins, and saw all matter of tortures. You do not need remind me. Olyvar is different. He is good, at heart."

"No man is good at heart unless it suits them, Mallister. The quicker you see that then the longer you will live."

Patrek wished not to talk with Addam Marbrand anymore. He was disparaging, despite not being much older than he was himself. Still, he needed the support of both of these knights.

"I will trust you, Mallister. I hear of your mercy towards Lord Westerling. You show same to my father and brother and I am happy. You have my word."

"And you mine, Ser Tybolt. What say you, Marbrand?"

Addam was silent for a few seconds, and then he reached out through the bars of the cave. Patrek took his hand.

"You have yourself a deal, Mallister. Spare my father and all the houses sworn to Ashemark shall be pacified."

He walked away from that meeting happily. He found Ser Ellery was gone when he passed the guard station. Maybe it had been he that had run when Patrek heard it behind him. He had to pass the gate to the Rock as he left the dark underworld, and made to climb into the castle proper.

"Ser Patrek, wait!"

He turned, and found Olyvar Frey and Jeyne Westerling at the gates. There was an armoured knight blocking their path. Patrek recognised his sigil, and sighed. Another Vance.

"That is Ser Patrek Mallister! He has the ear of the king! He can vouch for us!"

"I don't care if he's Robb Stark reborn, I ain't letting a Frey and a Westerling into our fucking castle! You hear me?!"

Patrek walked over to the three of them, and put his hand on Olyvar's shoulder. He recognised the Vance now. Ronald, called the Bad, the eldest son and heir of Norbert Vance. He had a black goatee and dark eyes. Some said that he raped whores and then slit their throats. He was not a pleasant man, if that was true or not.

"These are my friends, Ser Ronald. They have been pardoned for the crimes of their family by their king, just as your father was pardoned for helping Jaime Lannister take Riverrun. He appears to have let the Vances into the Rock, although to me it seems that if we removed them we would have no soldiers here. It is an infestation."

He watched Ronald's eyes, and could almost see his brain working. Did he want a fight now? He knew that Patrek had been given command of a third of the Tully forces, had the ear of the Blackfish and Lord Blackwood, and was a childhood friend of the king. He hoped he drew his steel. One less Vance made the world a better place. Instead he stood aside, allowing Olyvar and Jeyne to pass.

He walked with the two of them into the building, and then stopped. His two friends stopped with him.

"Olyvar, you have men that you trust, yes?"

"One hundred men that are loyal to me, my lord."

Patrek nodded. They were men that had come from the Twins, but had been appalled at the ungodly actions of Walder Frey. They had been outsiders in his army, though he had made sure to eat with them two nights a week.

"Good. Take half of them to the dungeons, and have the other half ready enough horses. You will take Ser Tybolt Crakehall and ride him south, to Crakehall. There he will convince his father and brother to peacefully surrender the castle. You understand?"

Olyvar nodded his head.

"Yes, my lord."

He then ran off, leaving Patrek alone with Jeyne. He had been avoiding a situation like this ever since Castamere, where they had shared a kiss. They had not done again since then, though Patrek had always made sure he was with Olyvar, or Ser Brynden. They had never been alone.

"That is how it will be here, Patrek. You and your men may have accepted me as innocent, but they will not. They blame me for the crimes of my mother and uncle, even though they have both been punished."

Patrek nodded. It was unfair to blame Jeyne for what had happened. She hadn't know. They had tricked her.

"Let me talk about it with Edmure-"

"Edmure Tully is not the man you once knew, Patrek. He is bitter and twisted. Talking to him will do no good. He will like as not kill you for looking for peaceful solutions. You know that? Why take this risk to spare the Crakehalls?"

Patrek looked to the ground. It was true. He was risking himself and his live for Lord Crakehall and his son, but what else could he do? His father had raised him to value honour, and not to be a bloodthirsty warrior. That was not the Mallister way.

"You saw what happened to Lannisport on the way here. Those people that were raped and murderered and brutalised weren't Tywin Lannister. They didn't even know him. They have lost so much for this war, just like the people of Seagard, or Raventree Hall, or Harrenhal. They have suffered enough, and so have the people of Crakehall."

Jeyne stared into his eyes for a few seconds, before turning away from him.

"You are a good man, Ser Patrek. You shouldn't be serving a man such as Edmure Tully."

Then she left him, and went up the stairs. He stared after her, unsure as to what she meant. Should he take his men and ride back to Seagard? Should he forced Edmure to see what he was doing to innocents? Was that what she wanted of him?

Just then, a young man appeared in front of him. He was no older than twenty years, but he wore the robes of a maester, and had his chain around his neck. His hair was dark, and his eyes were, too. He knew what that meant.

"You would be a Vance, yes?"

The boy was nervous. He wasn't at all like Ellery, Ronald or Karyl.

"Yes- No, my lord. I was. I am Jon of the Citadel. I serve Creylen. He is maester here. I was told to summon you. Lord Tully- King Tully- King Edmure wants to see you in the gardens of the Rock."

"The gardens? Where does one have gardens inside a rock?"

Jon's eyes went up. Of course. They would be on top. That was a long climb.

"You can be winched up, if you like. It is how most highborns get around the rock."

"No, Jon. Show me the way. Tell me about these gardens."

Patrek regretted walking by the time they were halfway there. Jon was used to the steep staircases and winding passageways, but he wasn't. Casterly Rock must be three times the size of any castle he had ever visited, and could fit twice the population of King's Landing inside its walls.

Apparently, Lord Tywin had ordered the construction of the gardens for his lady wife, Joanna Lannister, after the birth of their twin children, Cersei and Jaime. Joanna had died before they were finished, and Tywin had refused to spend any time within the gardens after they were completed. Gerion Lannister had tended to them first, and then, after he disappeared, old maester Creylen.

The gardens were more green than anything, when they eventually reached them. Patrek was tired and wanted nothing more than to sit down, but instead he found Karyl Vance waiting for him. He dismissed the maester, and followed Ser Karyl into the gardens.

"You chose to walk? You have kept our king waiting."

"I am already late to this destruction. I struggle to see how a few more minutes would have helped my case."

Karyl nodded curtly at that, and they walked in silence. Soon they pulled to the edge of the gardens, and Patrek started to gape. From here you could see the entirety of the Westerlands. He was certain that he could see the twinkle of the running waters of the Trident, and the rising Mountains of the Moon. He looked for Castamere, and saw it. Nothing more than a speck a thousand leagues below them.

"It impresses you? Naught more than typical Lannister showmanship."

"It's beautiful."

Karyl scoffed at that, and turned to the left. After a few seconds Patrek followed him.

He found Edmure seated on an elaborate chair of gold, that had no doubt been brought here from the high hall of the Rock. By his side stood Jonos Bracken, who called himself Hand, Hugo Vance, Gerion Chambers, Marq Piper, and Theomar Smallwood. Patrek saw no signs of Brynden or Tytos. Had they not been invited?

"My king."

He knelt before Edmure, who indicated for him to rise. There was annoyance in his eyes.

"I got the raven you sent me from Castamere, Ser Patrek. You pardoned Gawen Westerling? Did I not tell you to take his head?"

"You did."

Jonos Bracken leaped forward at that.

"You see, your grace? He admits to his treason. He admits to disobeying your direct orders."

"Gawen Westerling was innocent."

That caused the gathered men to mumble. Patrek heard the words traitor and Lannister sympathizer.

"He had no part in the Red Wedding. I see no reason to punish him for the crimes of his wife."

"This is war, boy. You do not allow your enemies to live. He was our enemy."

That was Theomar Smallwood talking. He was a brute of a man, with more muscle than wit.

"Lord Theomar. I heard tell of your great feats at the Golden Tooth and then Hornvale. They were both fine victories, but both brought around by the use of our enemies who we hold as prisoner, yes? If we had killed Lady Lefford and Ser Flement Brax then you would not have had your victories. We now hold Lord Banefort and Lord Westerling as our prisoners, and House Spicer has been ended, all in my king's name."

Theomar did not have a response to that, and Patrek turned back to Edmure, and the red-faced Lord Bracken.

"Lord Westerling was innocent of the crimes you accused him of, your grace. He deserves to be spared."

Edmure closed his eyes for a few seconds, and Lord Bracken made to bark some new comment. Edmure silenced him, however.

"I accept your judgement here, Ser Patrek, as you are an old friend, but do not think you can defy my direct orders again. This is your final warning. Ser Marq, Lord Gerion, bring forward the prisoners."

Patrek's heart skipped a beat. Had Benjen Bracken brought Westerling and Banefort here? Had Edmure taken Crakehall and Marbrand from the cells? Had he seized Olyvar and Jeyne?

The two people brought forward were strangers to Patrek, however.

The first was a young boy, about fifteen years of age. He had long, blond hair, and te green eyes of a Lannister. The other man was greying, and his face was lined. His eyes were what marked him out as another Lannister, but naught else.

"Ser Martyn and Ser Damion Lannister. They are the heir to the Rock and the Castellan respectively."

That was Edmure, enlightening him on the identities of the two men. Patrek could tell which one was which. He recognised Martyn from Riverrun, where he had been a prisoner.

"I want to send a message to the bitch queen in King's Landing and the rest of her family. Should I kill her young heir or her old cousin? It is your choice, Ser Parek. Choose, and prove your loyalty to me."

What? How could Edmure ask this of him? Did he have an answer that he wanted? How could he ask Patrek to weigh up these lives, and decide that one was worth more than the other? What did he expect from him?

"Your king asked you a question, boy."

Patrek closed his eyes shut, and then opened them. His fingers danced on the pommel of his sword.

"I choose neither."

He heard the sound of steel, as Smallwood, Piper, and the two Vances all went for their swords.

"I suffered at the hands of House Frey too, Edmure, and yet I can show mercy. These men did nothing to me. I will not sentence one to die."

There was a twitch in Edmure's face at that response. Was he going to send his men on him? Patrek was sure he could deal with Hugo Vance and Jonos Bracken, but Theomar, Karyl and Marq were all individually good swordsmen. He would be slaughtered.

"Then they both die."

Edmure went to the two of them, his dagger drawn. Patrek grabbed his old friend by the hand.

"I implore you, Edmure. Do not do this. Do this and you are lost."

The two of them locked eyes. There was an intensity in Edmure's. Where had his friend gone? Was there anything left within him? Had Jeyne been right after all?

Edmure sheathed his dagger then, and Patrek thought that he had won him over.

Then, he grabbed the older Lannister by the shirt, and dragged him to the edge of the garden. He held him against the wall.

"This is what you get."

Then he hauled the man over the wall, with him screaming out. Edmure watched as the man fell. The younger Lannister called out in terror, but was kicked by Bracken. Tears appeared in Patrek's eyes. He wiped them, and then turned away. He did not want to see this. His friend was dead. He left the gardens and stormed downstairs.

He considered taking his sword and his horse and riding home. That was what he wanted to do. Instead he went to a room. He entered it, and found who he knew would be on the other side.

Jeyne looked up at him from her bed. Her eyes were sad.

"You were right. I don't want to serve him."


	72. Cersei IV

Cersei Lannister was being sick. It was the third time today. She had been sick four times the day before, and five times before that. This had been going on for a few weeks now. She had been to see the cursed Tyrell maester, Ballabar, but he had not told her anymore than she already knew. She had experienced this before. She knew what it meant.

She was pregnant.

She had been sick with all of her children. Joffrey had been the worst, but it had still happened for Tommen and Myrcella. As she vomited out into the privy, she could think of only one thing, however, and it made her smile.

That haggardly old bitch had been wrong. She had said that she would only have three children, but here she was, pregnant with a fourth. When that child was born then she would know that she would no longer have to fear the words of Maggy the Frog, or the twice cursed valonqar that had stalked her since the day she visited the elderly woods witch. She was safe from Tyrion.

Obviously she knew not to trust Ballabar. He had been maester at the Arbor before being named Grand Maester by the conclave. He was a Tyrell man. He would like as not keep the fat oaf of Highgarden updated on her visits to him.

She knew the father, of course. It was Lord Rowan's bastard. Osney and Osmund had not been in her bed recently enough for the child to be theirs, and she had not seen Jaime in a long time. It was not his. Would the child have the same beautiful golden hair as Joff had. Or would they be born with the ugly Rowan red? She hoped the baby would be beautiful.

Who should she name it for? Not her grandfather. He had been too weak, nor her uncle or her father. Tywin Lannister did not deserve a bastard being named after him. That detestable sellsword had named Lollys the Lackwit's bastard after Tyrion. Her brother had a name befitting a bastard, but she would not curse her child with the Imp's name. She was not that cruel.

Maybe she should name it for Jaime. He had abandoned her after all. Naming her bastard with another man for him was spiteful, but the thought made her smile all the more. She could prove Maggy the Frog wrong and spite Jaime at the same time. What a happy coincidence.

Soon enough she could pull herself back to her feet. The sickness was gone for now, though she still felt somewhat nauseous. It would come back later on in the day, she knew. Just then a knock came on the door. She was thankful it had not been a few seconds earlier. When she opened it she found Hallyne, the pyromancer, stood on the other side. He was a lord now, of course, though he held no lands. Joffrey had given him that reward for helping to defend the city. He was a worm, however, and nothing more than a tool to be used in the great game, just as Qyburn or Ser Gregor were.

"My Queen, I have answered your summons."

He bowed extrabagantly. She rolled her eyes. He was too formal. He was short and pale, with a whispy white beard that fell from his chin. He was balding too, she knew, but he wore his silly hat whenever he left the pyromancer's building.

"Yes, yes. Come in, my lord. I would talk with you in private. You never know who is watching out here."

The old fool did not play the game. He did not know the amount of eyes that her enemies had in the Red Keep. Jalabhar Xho and Creighton Longbough answered to Nymeria Sand, and Bayard Norcross, who was of the Kingsguard, was the pet of the young Tyrell bitch and her oaf father.

She turned and found Hallyne awkwardly stood in the centre of the room. The smell of vomit still hung in the air. She knew that the pyromancer could smell it. Hopefully he would not make the link as to why she had been sick. She didn't want him to know.

"Why have you called me here, my Queen?"

Cersei went to the desk in her room, and poured herself a goblet of wine. She wanted to remove the taste of vomit from her mouth before she started to talk to the pallid man. She didn't want to touch hi. She found his hands to always be damp and clammy.

"I wish to talk with you about the wildfire reserves left over from the Battle of the Blackwater. Do we have any?"

"Yes, my Queen, but not much and the city is no longer under threat. I don't see-"

"It is not your job to see. We are surrounded by enemies. To the north, to the east, to the south and to the west. We must prepare for them attacking. We must be ready."

The man nodded his head nervously.

"As you say, my Queen. I shall have the acolytes work as fast as they can. I will send one of them to give you a report in a few days."

She nodded, and indicated that the man could leave. She had no further use for him.

"You better keep this to yourself, pyromancer, or you shall find yourself burned. I have no use for men who cannot keep secrets, you understand, that?"

The man turned and nodded to her before he left. Then he scurried off, and she was glad that he was gone. She trusted him more than most. He was too craven to betray her, and he did not play the game as others did, but he had turned to Tyrion's side before. She was not sure that he would stay loyal to her on purpose. He might be caught out by the Tyrells and their clever tricks.

The Tyrell presence in the capital was still strong. The Knight of Flowers was dead, but his mother, father and sister still stayed here, even after Tommen's death. The oaf hoped that he would get back on the small council, no doubt, and he was joined by his bannermen, Paxter Redwyne, who had just lost one of his sons. She had laughed at that news. The squabbling Redwyne twins had been an annoyance. Then there was Jon Fossoway, who was a strong military mind, even if he did not look it.

Just then, the door opened again, and the simpering fool Jocelyn Swyft crept in. She had been blubbering and weeping recently, ever since she heard of her father's death in Braavos. Harys had been a simpering fool. She was not surprised he had met his end at the hands of the Iron Bank. Still, she could not stand the crying of this woman. She did not need it.

"See that my sheets are changed. I have important business. Be gone when I return."

The foolish woman bobbed her head up and down, and Cersei snarled as she left. How she despised that weak woman. She brought shame on their sex.

She swept through the courtyard of the castle, towards the main hall of the Red Keep. The small council were meeting this morning, and Myrcella had invited her to attend. Seen as she had got her business done with Hallyne she was now free to do so.

When she got there, she found Lords Gargalen and Allyrion stood outside the door, with Tallad the Timid slumped on the floor, his back against the wall. Lord Gargalen made to block her path as she approached.

"The Hand is-"

"If I cared what the bastard Hand thought then I would not be here."

She shoived past the old man. Allyrion and Tallad made no move to stop her. In fact, she thought that Tallad looked like he might be asleep.

She pushed open the door, and found Nymeria Sand deep in some aggravated conversation with Willam Wythers, one of the knights sworn to Mace Tyrell. Wythers was gesticulating wildly with his hands. This was clearly some sort of argument.

"I hope I'm not interrupting something. I was told the small council was meeting."

She was met with a glare from the bastard, which gave Cersei some satisfaction. She wondered if Wythers had been taken in by the girl's lowborn charms, too. How much could Mace Tyrell trust this man now? Was he compromised.

"We are. The Queen informed me that she had invited you. Take a seat. I was just discussing the departure of Margaery Tyrell back to Highgarden with Ser Willem."

Cersei smirked. She was sure that was a lie. These two had not been discussing. She saw the look that Wythers gave the bastard. It was one of disgust and longing. How often had she seen that face? She had used her body to get what she wanted to, as well. She had grown beyond that, however. She was not as baseborn as this bastard.

Lords Gargaeln and Allyrion entered and seated themselves after Wythers left, then came Tallad, and then Mathis. When they were all seated, Myrcella entered, with her Dornish boy on her arm. She looked so regal now. She was more a monarch than Tommen or Joffrey ever had been, even with her hideous facial scar.

All the lords rose, but she stayed sat. She did not need rise for her daughter. The bastard stayed sat, too. She was distracted. There was something on her mind. There was something occupying her attentions.

When Myrcella and Trystane had taken their seat, Nymeria looked around the room, and started talking.

"Welcome, my lords. I called this meeting as we have several people who wish to talk with us. The first may come forward, Lord Jalabhar."

Cersei started at that. She turned, and found Jalabhar Xho was at the door. He opened it, and in stepped the fat oaf of Highgarden, Lord Mace Tyrell. He stood before the council. There was some sweat on his brow. He disgusted her.

"Lord Tyrell, you are here to speak with the council. Go on?"

"I- I have been sent to ask for recompense, my lords. Euron Greyjoy has devastated the Arbor and Oldtown. They need money to rebuild. Lord Redwyne has lost his heirs, and the Lord of Oldtown is on the run. The Reach needs to see a reward for the support we have given Kings Joffrey and Tommen, and now the radiant Princess- Queen Myrcella."

He bowed slightly to Myrcella, and then turned back to the council.

"If I recall, Lord Tyrell, you supported the traitor Renly Baratheon before you supported the true dynasty. Maybe I would suggest that your reward for your service is you being allowed to keep your head."

The bastard said that with such arrogance. It was clearly a threat towards the Lord of Highgarden, but wasn't spoken as one. There was such assurance to her words.

"We fought in the Riverlands, and at Dragonstone-"

Nymeria waved her hand slightly.

"We all know what House Tyrell has done for us, my Lord. We do not need a list recited to us. Lord Rowan, does the crown have the money to pay back Lords Redwyne, Hightower and Tyrell for their service to the throne?"

Mathis' eyes flashed to Cersei, and she shook her head, near imperceptibly. She turned to Nymeria, and found the bastard's eyes on her, a look of interest in her eyes. None of the other council was looking at her.

"I am afraid that the crown already owes a large debt to Casterly Rock and the Iron Bank of Braavos. None of the Masters of Coin before me did much to limit that. Lord Littlefinger has left us in too much debt. We cannot spare any for House Tyrell."

The protesting Lord of Highgarden was ushered out by Xho, and was followed by a girl. She was fair and innocent, with golden hair and sweet eyes. Robert would have loved her, Cersei thought. She wore the garb of the faith, however, so she was most likely a virgin.

Or not, if Septon Luceon had got to her. That caused Cersei to smirk.

"Sister, you come before us from the High Septon, do you not?"

"That I do, my lady Hand. His high holiness wishes to ask of the queen that she detain the departure of Lady Margaery of House Tyrell, until after the trials of her cousins have been finished."

Myrcella leaned over, and whispered something in the bastard's ear. Nymeria smiled at it.

"The queen wishes to know why, after finding Lady Margaery innocent, the High Septon wishes to prevent her departure. Is she still suspected of wrongdoing? Did the Most Devout make the wrong decision?"

"The trials of the Tyrell cousins impact that of Margaery Tyrell. If they are found guilty then it may be possible for the Faith to put more charges of impiety upon her. The High Septon makes this request. It would only be for another fortnight at most."

Nymeria was silent for a few seconds, and then seemed to make up her mind.

"Very well, Sister of the Faith. I shall see that Lady Margaery does not stray more than a half day's ride from the city. Ser Tallad, I am assigning you to watch over her. I trust you more than any of Mace Tyrell's guards."

Tallad looked like he was being awoken from some stupor. Had he been sleeping in the small council meetings? By the Seven, this place had gone downhill. She would have had the man's balls removed if he had slept through one of her meetings.

"Did you hear what was said, Ser Tallad?"

"Yes. Yes. Lord Tyrell wants recompense-"

Nymeria sighed.

"The High Septon does not wish Margaery Tyrell to return to Highgarden. I have assigned you to watch over her. She may leave the city, but can go no more than a day's ride, and not past Hayford. You understand?"

The knight nodded vigorously, and Nymeria turned her attention away from him and back to the fair septa.

"I hope that sees his holiness gratified. The relationship between the crown and the faith should be one of sisters, not of squabbling siblings. You may leave now, septa."

The woman nodded, and bowed her head, before being escorted out by Xho. When she was gone, the bastard pulled out a piece of parchment.

"I was given this by Grand Maester Ballabar this morning. It is a raven, from Storm's End. It claims that Ronnett Connington is dead, and that the one calling himself Aegon Targaryen will march on the city of King's Landing. He will show mercy to those who bend the knee."

Mathis looked queasy at that news, and Lord Gargalen shook his head.

"Maybe bending the knee would be for the best. The queen would survive, and could go back to Dorne to be with her husband, safe from these wars."

Allyrion spoke up then.

"I agree with Lord Gargalen. Fighting the dragon now will just lead to our inevitable death. We should bend the knee and save our own lives."

"Cowards."

She thought she whispered the word under her breath, but the attentions of all those gathered turned on her. Allyrion looked offended.

"This dragon is no dragon. He is most likely the son of some Lysense whore who is taking advantage of an opportunity. Bending the knee before him would be worse than bending for a common hedge knight. We should stand and fight, like we did against Stannis on the Blackwater."

Nymeria mused for a few seconds, and then she smirked.

"There was a second part to the news. The dragon has taken a wife. I think you will be familiar with the name, Lady Lannister."

"Then tell me."

The smirk played on the bastard's lips, and Cersei wanted to smack it off her.

"Sansa Stark."


	73. The King's Hand

Jon Connington sat in his chambers. He was Hand of the King, and he couldn't be distracted by the events of today. They were leaving Storm's End, and heading for King's Landing, which was weak from corruption, villainy and a girl queen with no experience of governance, whose Hand was a bastard born of a second son. They were weak.

Ser Marq Mandrake was stood before him, with Roland Caron in the corner, Harry Strickland stood beside his man, and Lysono Maar with him. Urswyck, who Aegon had raised to lordship, was also present, as commander of the Brave Companions. Gerald Gower was present, too. Ser Hugo Bolling was stood outside the door.

He was addressing Mandrake.

"Aegon has told me to pick a man to serve as castellan of Storm's End whilst he is gone. I have chosen you. We will be leaving two hundred of the Golden Company men behind with you, and half the ships from Tarth to block the bay. They will be under your command. Lysono will be staying with you, too. When we hold the city he will ride with half your men to join us. Do you understand?"

Mandrake nodded at that. Jon remembered him from his time served in the Golden Company. He was a strong man, and a good military mind.

"Lord Rolland, I am putting you in command of our outriders. You will leave an hour before us, and we will meet up again at the edge of the Kingswood. Take Lord Urswyck and his Brave Companions with you."

"As you say, Connington."

The man was bluff and spoke what he thought. He liked to kill, and he was a good soldier, though Jon did not necessarily trust him as much as he would have liked to. He could still be a useful asset, however.

"Ser Gerald will carry on commanding the guard of Edric Storm, who Aegon insists will come with us, to serve as his squire before whatever battle gets fought. Harry will command the Golden Company, of course, who will be at the centre of our force, with the Stormlords and the Reachlords commanding the flanks. We will get to the city as quickly as possible. You may all leave."

Mandrake, Gower, Maar, Caron, and Urswyck all left. Jon glanced the white armour of Bolling through the door. He found Strickland still stood before him when the others had all left.

"May I sit?"

You may not. I dismissed you. You should have left with the others. I do not have the time to deal with your games, Strickland. You should have gone.

"If you wish, my lord."

Strickland sat and stretched out his legs.

"I was promised a lordship when this war is done. I would like to know what progress has been made on this. I would like-"

"You are not being given Highgarden. House Tyrell are enemies for the moment, but they may soon be allies. Aegon wishes Storm's End to pass to Edric Storm, who will be given the Baratheon name. You could serve as his vassal, but this is a topic for when the war is done, and no sooner."

Strickland looked annoyed at that, but quickly changed his face. That was part of his game, of course. He did not want to come across as an angry man.

"You may leave now, Lord Strickland."

Harry rose to his feet, and then left, though he had a glare in him for Jon. He did not seek to command the love of those who followed Aegon. He saught to place the true king on the Iron Throne. Rhaegar's son…

Rhaegar had betrayed the Seven Kingdoms for that Stark girl, and now Aegon had taken a Stark as his bride. Was that fate? Was that destiny? Rhaegar would have said so. It would have been written in one of his books of propechy. The dragon has three heads…

He had heard Rhaegar say that to Arthur Dayne once. What had he meant? Who were the heads? Were Aegon and Daenerys two of them? Did that mean there was another Targaryen hidden somewhere? Would Illyrio know if there was? Was this all part of the fat merchant's game? He didn't trust the cheesemonger, but there was little that he could do. They needed the support of Pentos in the coming war.

Even with Ser Loras, the Tyrell forces supported the Baratheon girl, and the Martells had run to her banner, too, despite the dusky Princess insisting that her father was no fan of the Lannisters. Doran Martell would do whatever he could to keep his people largely out of the war. The Tullys were fighting the Lannisters, but under their own crown, and the Vale was held by House Royce. The Bronnze Yohn had named himself king. His family were too proud and foolish to bend the knee now. They had finally wrested power from the Arryns.

All they could hope for was the support of smaller lords from the Reach and the Crownlands. Already Houses Peake, Ball, and Costayne had come to their banner. They were Reachlords. More would come when they saw how good a king Aegon would be. He had been trained since birth. He was ready to sit the Iron Throne, as Rhaegar should have done.

"I will do you justice, my silver prince. Your son shall sit upon your throne. I fight for him and for you."

He could almost hear Rhaegar's laugh on the wind, and feel him run his hand across his cheek.

"I love you, my griffin."

He had imagined it, of course. He had heard those words all those days ago, but not since the day that Rhaegar had been cruelly taken from it. Still they brought tears to his old eyes. Still he thought of what might have been, had it been Rhaegar who had come away from the Trident alive. Had the Baratheon scum been put down then and there.

Rhaegar would have sat the Iron Throne, and Jon would have been at his side. He would have had to keep the Martell girl as his wife in name, for the Faith would never accept them, but they would have been able to carry on loving each other. A life with love would feel good. Jon had never loved anyone since that day.

He removed his shirt then, and threw it in the closet. He tried to avoid looking down at his right arm and shoulder, which had hardened and cracked like stone. This greyscale would kill him one day, but he would live to see Aegon sit on the throne. He was sure of it. He would not die before that could happen. For Rhaegar.

There was a knock on the door, and he quickly pulled on a shirt of red and white. This was riding gear, though he suspected they would make some slow progress on their first day. He then opened the doors, and found the hulking frame of Ser Franklyn Flowers, joined by the rangy boy, Ser Addam Whitehead.

Whitehead was tall and lean, a good fighter, and swift, too. He had a shock of red hair. The Whiteheads were not an important family in the Stormlands, but they had been one of the first to declare for Aegon. They would be rewarded with land after the war was done. He would see to it. He had taken Addam in to his personal guard.

"The king calls for your presence in the courtyard, Lord Hand."

"He says to be ready to ride. He does not want to wait, and nor does his bride."

Jon nodded at that. It was a curt nod, he thought. He didn't dislike the Stark girl, but every time he looked at her he thought of the bitch that had seduced Rhaegar, even though she looked little like Lyanna Stark. She was more Tully than she was Stark. Maybe she could be used to bring the Riverlands behind Aegon.

"I am ready."

He marched down the halls of Storm's End, with Flowers and Whitehead behind him, joined by Bolling, who had been on his door.

Outside, he found Aegon stood in the centre of the courtyard, surrounded by other men of his Kingsguard. There was Harlan Grandison, a fat youth with a bushy, brown beard, Robert Fell, who was leaner and fitter, though only the son of a second son, and Daeron Lonmouth, who was Aegon's Lord Commander. They were all young and green, but they all brought supporters. Two hundred Grandison men, fifty Lonmouth knights, three hundred Fell man-at-arms. Bolling had brought one hundred and twenty skilled archers, and Bryce Cafferen near thirty men all skilled with the lance. They could make the difference.

Jon spotted familiar faces as he walked towards Aegon. There was Titus Peake, who had set aside his Lannister bride to fight for Aegon, and his twin sons, Aegon and Aemon. Those were Targaryen names. He wondered why they had been given them?

Then there was Rolland Storm, or Caron as he called himself now, who was already mounted and ready to leave, along with Urswyck, the fake lord. Caron rode over to him.

"I am leaving now, Lord Hand. I will defeat any enemy who dares to challenge me. That is how the Warrior would use me."

"You are no use to your king as a dead man. Report back if the enemy has set up defences. Send Urswyck, if you have to. We do not have men to waste on what the Warrior wants, so instead do as your Hand tells you."

Caron's face was a storm at that comment. He did not like it. He did not like being restrained. He was no lord. Maybe by title, but not by manner or demeanour. He was still a bastard, even if Aegon had blessed him with his father's name. He would never truly be a Caron, and he knew it. Even if his family was dead asides for him.

Jon pushed on then, to his king, who looked as regal as a man could look at that age. Aegon was not haughty, but well postured, as Lemore had taught him to be. He was handsome, too. Not as beautiful as Rhaegar had been, but no man ever was or would be. Rhaegar was as if the gods had made the perfect man in their own image.

"My king."

He nodded his head to Aegon, as a sign of respect. Franklyn and Whitehead sank to their knee. Aegon indicated for them to rise.

"Lord Hand, you came swifter than I anticipated. Are all arrangements sorted for our departure? Our castellan is chosen?"

Jon nodded again.

"Ser Marq Mandrake, your grace. He is a man with much experience."

"I will take your knowledge of the situation for granted. Mandrake shall do. Cafferen and Grandison will look after my bride and her safety. I trust Ser Franklyn and Ser Addam are more than capable of seeing to your defence?"

"That we are, your grace. Not a shot of harm will come to your Hand whilst he has Franklyn Flowers at his back."

The man was loud and brash, but a strong fighter, and he could be viscious. There were few men that Jon would rather have defending him. He was lying, of course, however. The greyscale would cause him harm, and kill him one day. What could Ser Franklyn do to save him from that? Shout it into submission? It would not surprise him if he tried.

"Ride ahead, Lord Connington. I will ride behind you, with my wife."

Jon nodded, and left Aegon with his knights, to find himself a horse. He mounted the chestnut courser that he had taken from Griffin's Roost, and then rode to the gate. Franklyn and Addam were already waiting for him. Addam was on a red mare, and Franklyn on a mighty, black courser. Franklyn needed a large horse, for he was a large man.

"Let us go."

He lead them out. The Golden Company and other assorted lords followed him out. They fanned out, and proceded on the Kingsroad, north, towards King's Landing. He could feel goosebumps form on his flesh as he thought of seeing the city again. He hadn't seen it since Aerys had exiled him. He had retaken his home, and how he would go north and retake Rhaegar's.

They were riding for a few leagues before they heard a horn blowing. He ordered the halt. He recognised the sound. It was Rolland, signalling that he was riding back to report. What could he have found so close to Storm's End?

Then he saw Rolland riding in, with Urswyck beside him, and another figure on horseback coming with them. He didn't recognise this new person. They were large, and dressed in dented armour. Some hedge knight, maybe. Why was Rolland bringing him back and disrupting the move out.

The Caron knight stopped in front of him, and pulled up his vizor.

"She wanted to see you or the king, Connington."

She? Surely not-

The figure removed his helm, and Jon was confronted with an ugly woman. She had short straw coloured hair, and a manly face, with a flesh wound on her cheek, where it looked like the skin had been stripped away. Her lips were swollen, and she had crooked teeth, which Jon could see when she opened her mouth to speak.

"Lord Connington."

Jon turned his eyes to Rolland, who seemed to take some enjoyment from his dumbfounded surprise. Who was the wench?

"This is Lady Brienne of Tarth, Connington. I think you have some things to discuss with her, do you not?"

The Seven be cursed. Brienne of Tarth was the woman that Haldon had arranged for him to marry. She was the heir to Tarth, and brought the Evenstar's ships with her. She was hideous, however.

"Lord Caron has informed me of the situation, my lord Hand. He says we are to be wedded, on the orders of my father. I can assure you that this will not happen. I do not wish to wed a man, let alone a Connington."

The wench spoke brazenly for a woman. He did not wish to wed her, but who was she to turn him down? That was not her place.

"I wish to serve on the Kingsguard, my lord."

That caused him to be even more shocked, and that in turn caused Caron to cackle wickedly.

"A woman cannot- No woman has ever- You are not a knight."

"That is not strictly true, Lord Connington. My knighthood was bestowed upon me by a friend. I am ready to serve."

"A woman cannot be knighted…"

The lady's eyes hardened at that, and she glared at him. There was something slightly childish about it. He realised that, despite her height and weathered appearance, this woman was little more than a girl, and likely still had her maidenhead.

"Maybe we should match swords, my lord. Then you will see how much a knight I am. I will fight one of your men instead, if that is what you will. I have rode many leagues to talk with you and to earn my white cloak."

Just then the sound of another horse came forward. Jon turned his head, and saw Aegon sauntering towards them, on the back of his silver charger.

"What appears to be the delay, Lord Connington? Who is this man?"

"This woman is Lady Brienne, the daughter of Selwyn Tarth. Lord Rolland brought her to me."

Aegon smiled slightly at that.

"Your betrothed? Did we stop the caravan for your nuptials, my Lord?"

Jon had a stoney look on his face, but he saw the maid flush. Could she be so easily embarrassed after a such a simple barb. How green and naïve was this girl.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Brienne. You are not what I expected. Your father must be proud of you. It is not any woman who could carry a sword as large as yours."

"Lady Brienne does not wish to wed me, your grace. She- She asks for a place on the Kingsguard."

Aegon mused on that for a few seconds.

"There is a place available. No woman has ever served on the Kingsguard, though."

"I said that-"

Brienne pushed her horse forward. Jon heard Flowers move his hand to his sword.

"If it please your grace, I have served on the Kingsguard before, to Renly Baratheon."

Jon scoffed.

"Renly Baratheon? The brother of the Usurper? He was a traitor king."

"He was a true king. He would have been a good king. I hear stories that you could be a good king too, your grace. That is part of the reason why I wish to serve you."

Aegon looked deep in thought.

"It takes great courage to stand before a king and refuse to decry the king you served before. Great loyalty, too. Pray tell, Lady Brienne, what other reason do you have?"

"I swore an oath to Lady Catelyn Stark. I swore to find her daughters and protect them. Sansa is here. I wish to protect her."

Jon shook his head.

"Queen Sansa already has Ser Bryce Cafferen assigned as her protector. She does not need another knight protecting her."

Aegon rose his hand.

"I will decide how to best protect my wife, my Lord. Do not think to lecture me on such things. Tell me, Lady Brienne, do you believe that you could defeat Lord Rolland in single combat? Ser Franklyn?"

Brienne looked the two men up and down for a few seconds each, before turning to Aegon.

"I do."

Aegon laughed, and clapped his hands.

"Excellent. Loyal, strong and confident. I look forward to seeing you in the white of the Kingsguard, Lady Brienne. Come, let me take you and introduce you to my wife. She will be most eager to meet you."

Brienne bowed her head a number of times.

"I thank you, your grace. You shall not regret it."

As they left, Jon grimaced.

"Not the result that you wanted, Connington?"

"Get riding, Caron. You are our freerider, not our town gossip. We are behind. We will need to travel further today. Go!"

Caron grumbled at that, and then turned, riding away with Urswyck. Jon watched them go, and as he did he celebrated. No wife meant his greyscale would not be discovered.

He would see Rhaegar's son sat upon the Iron Throne yet.


	74. Daenerys IV

The wind blew through the sails of her flagship as they approached her family home. It was strange. She had been born here, though she had never known it as home. There had been a storm raging then. Stormborn. Her mother had died. Viserys had always hated her for that. He had blamed her for their mother's death. She had always felt that had been unfair of him.

Stormborn.

The irony of that was that the weather that had seen them across the Narrow Sea had been fair. The wind had blown them towards Westeros, as if the gods themselves were willing her to return home.

She closed her eyes, and she saw Viserys stood at the prow of the ship, eagerly watching out for the home that he had known, but she never had. He had dreamed of returning, she knew. It had been what he wanted more than anything. It had been his downfall. He had not been able to wait to fulfil her dreams.

She had waited. She had learned from Meereen. She had learned from Astapor and Yunkai. She had learned from Vaes Dothrak, and Qarth, and Qohor. She was ready for her throne and her crown. She deserved them both.

Drogo had taught her to be strong and powerful. Xaro had taught her to be shrewd and clever. Skahaz and Reznak had taught her to be fair and prudent. These were fine lessons, but only the strong survived. Only the strong won.

That was Rogero's lesson to her. That was what he had taught her. She had been strong enough to bring two of the mighty Free Cities to their knees, and a third was hers to command. Myr would fall soon enough.

She could see the island of Dragonstone come into view now. This was her home. This was where Aegon Targaryen had plotted his invasion. Where Rhaneyra Targaryen had fought for her crown from. Where she had been born and her mother died.

She turned, and found Rogero stood behind her, looking towards the island. There was a look of wistfulness in his eyes.

"You look sad, great khal. I did not know that you were capable of such emotions."

"You are more than aware of the range of things I can feel, khalessi Daenerys. I am simply happy that you will soon be home."

Was he happy? Surely he must know that once she landed she would have to find a husband with troops at his disposal. Then their amorous nighttime activities would have to come to an end. She would miss them. Rogero was strong and dominant, like Drogo had been, and knew what he liked. He brought her to climax many times, but he would not be able to when she took a husband. This was another way that he reminded her of Daario, who she had left behind. She hoped that she would see him and Ser Barristan again.

Meereen may have claimed them, however.

Rakharo and Ser Humfrey came onto the deck then, as they pulled close to the sandy shore of her family's home. They would be her guard as she took her first steps. There were still enemies on this island. It had belonged to the Usurper's brother before, and had since been retaken by the little girl who sat upon the Targaryen throne.

There was a party on the beach waiting for her. There were some men. They had weapons. She could see that from here. She could see the glint of the sun on the still tips of spears.

"Let me go first, khaleesi. It is safer."

"No, Rogero. I will lead. This is what my life has been built towards. I will not have the people of Westeros see me as a coward, too afraid to make the first move. I will lead down."

The Andal khal looked unsure of that, but eventually acquiesced. He knew that he would not be able to stop her, if she set her mind on doing this. She would do it.

She was strong. Stormborn.

They lowered the smaller ship, with Pentoshi sailors joining them on the oars. Rogero came with her, along with Humfrey, Rakharo, the Stark girl, and a few of Rogero's most trusted Dothraki. She looked to the sky, and saw Drogon flying above them.

She made sure that she was the first off the boat when they landed, and fell to her knees when she was away from the lapping waves. She let the sand run through her fingers. She was here. She was home.

She remembered Viserys telling her of the times that he had visited the island castle as a child. He had played on the beach with Ser Willem Darry and Prince Lewyn Martell. He had been taught to cross blades by Ser Barristan or Oswell Whent. He had sneaked through the halls and seen their brother, Rhaegar, talking with Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, or the fiery haired Jon Connington. He had enjoyed those trips.

She looked up at the castle that towered above them. The tall towers and the dragons built into the rock. Drogon landed, and he too looked upon their new home with some curiosity. This moment did not mean so much to him as it did to her.

"My Queen."

She turned, and found Humfrey Hightower offering her a hand. She took it, and rose to her feet, and looked towards the enemy party that had gathered for their arrival.

The man that stood at the head of their party was handsome, with the same silver-gold hair as Viserys. He was thin and lean, with inquisitive, grey-green eyes that seemed to be amused at something. Had he taken her falling to her knees as a sign of weakness? He wore functional clothes of blue and silver. Those were not Tyrell colours. She had been led to believe that her home was held by a Tyrell.

"Who are you?"

The man laughed at that question.

"I am no-one, Great Khaleesi. No-one special, that is. Just a bastard come before you. They call me Aurane Waters. I was once a king, now I am here. I know who you are, of course. The tales of your beauty do you a disservice."

This one had a glib tongue, and he knew it. His words of silver had clearly amused him, for there was an arrogant amusement in his thin lips. She could hear Rogero snarl behind her. The bastard's eyes flitted over the other members of her party, stopping on Arya Stark for a few seconds longer than the others.

"Who sends a bastard to talk with me? I should have the castellan of the castle, at least. Or does he fear that I might have introduced him to my dearest son?"

Aurane laughed at that, too.

"Castellan? I suppose that would be me. This castle is mine for the moment. I am here to negotiate."

"You are brave to admit to that. I just told you that the castellan would be fed to my dragon. Are you brave, or just foolish?"

Aurane laughed again. This one was very easily amused. Were they the laughs of a fool, who did not take her seriously?

"The terms of my surrender are simple, Daenerys Targaryen. I wish to be legitimised, as Aurane Velaryon, given a wife of high birth, and be named as the heir to my nephew, who rules Driftmark as a child."

"You should not be making demands. I am your rightful queen. You owe me your allegiance. You should bend the knee now, or I shall burn you where you stand."

Auran didn't laugh at that, but there was still some amusement in his lips and eyes.

"Then do that. Burn me and turn the Seven Kingdoms against you. Prove that you are no better than your father, or take this castle peacefully, and secure the support of Driftmark and Claw Isle. That is your choice."

She looked to Rogero. She knew what he would want to do. She should not show mercy to a man that defied her like this. Viserys would not have done. Viserys was mad, however. The Seven Kingdoms would never have welcomed him how he had wanted. She needed to be able to show mercy if she did not want to end up like him.

"Very well. I accept the terms of your surrender."

The bastard then stood aside, and she started to make the approach to the castle. She ran her hand along the stone as they climbed up the steps. She stopped before the gates. There were men stood on the walls, looking down at her. They were silent. Her men were silent. They knew what this meant. The Targaryens were home. At long last.

They passed the throne room, and went up the stairs. Then they were there. This was where Aegon had planned his invasion of the Seven Kingdoms. The painted table. This was the thing of legend. She ran her hand along it as she travelled the length. She felt Sunspear, Storm's End, Duskendale, Runsetone, White Harbour, Karhold… She felt the feeling of home and magic running through her. This was what Aegon had felt three hundred years before.

She turned at the top, and saw those that had gathered before. Humfrey Hightower stood at the opposite end. Rogero was to the left of her, with Aurane on his side. Arya Star had run her hand along the North. Rakharo was stood beside her.

"I'm home."

Stormborn.

"We have no time to waste. We have to prepare. We have to begin. The Second Conquest of the Seven Kingdoms begins here."

Some others rushed into the room after that. There was Marwyn, joined by two Dothraki, including Motho, the second of her Khals.

"What is the situation, Grand Maester."

Marwyn pulled out a scroll, and started to read from it.

"The Usurper's daughter holds King's Landing. She is supported by Highgarden and Sunspear. The boy who claims to be your nephew is at Storm's End. Yohn Royce calls himself King of the Vale, and holds the last Arryn prisoner. Edmure Tully is sacking the Westerlands as King of the Rivers. Euron Greyjoy holds the Iron Islands. Stannis Baratheon is fighting Roose Bolton in the North."

She absorbed all that information, and tapped the table.

"We should be looking to find supporters. There will be many lords who want to support the returning dragon."

That was Ser Humfrey. She agreed, but with Aegon at Storm's End, they might choose him over her. He had a cock. He didn't have teats.

He didn't have a dragon.

"We should look to the Crownlands. House Rykker owes my father a debt. He rose them to power. Houses Hayford, Chelsted, Thorne, Stokeworth, Brune and Crabb all supported my father. Rogero, take half your khalasar and travel to these castles and bring them to my cause. You will depart tomorrow."

That was a good move. She could get rid of him and push him away whilst she looked for a husband, and have him intimidate some lords into supporting her. She was proud of it.

"The Tyrells and Tullys owe a debt to my family, also. It was my ancestor, the Conqueror, who rose them to dominion over their lands. The Tyrells were just stewards before that."

"House Tyrell supports the Baratheons, my Lady."

That was Ser Humfrey. He hailed from the Reach.

"My father told me to never trust Mace Tyrell. He is nothing. He is governed by his mother, a Redwyne. The Tyrell name has been spoiled. They side with the Baratheon scum-"

Humfrey was cut off then, by the Velaryon bastard, of all people.

"House Tyrell supported Joffrey and Tommen Baratheon because they were wed to Mace's daughter, Margaery. They have no reason to support the girl. Maybe, with a little persuasion, they would be willing to swap sides, and support you, Daenerys. Mace has an unmarried son…"

That caused some grumblings around the table. Rogero snarled, and Humfrey's moustache bristled, but it was Marwyn that spoke up.

"Willas Tyrell is a cripple. He is not worthy of our Queen."

"He is a cripple who is the heir to Highgarden. He is clever, too, I hear. He would make a worthy husband, and guarantee the Tyrell armies. It is just my advice to the Queen."

She had known that she would need to take a husband, but a cripple? She did not know this Willas Tyrell. He might be nice. Could he be as handsome as Rogero, though? Could he be as suave as Daario, or as raw and strong as her Drogo? How could she love him like she had them? Did that even matter?

She needed armies, and if marrying Willas Tyrell secured them then she had to do it. There was no choice. She must wed the Tyrell.

"Very well."

She saw Humfrey and Marwyn exchange a look of annoyance.

"Ser Humfrey, you will travel to Highgarden to suggest this marriage pact. Then travel to Oldtown and secure the support of your father, as you promised me."

"I am of the Queensguard. My place is-"

She turned her eyes on him, and he shirked away.

"Your place is wherever I send you, Ser. Do not think to question my decisions. You will leave tomorrow, with Rogero. Then ride as swiftly as you can."

Another look to Marwyn, and then he bowed his head. Was something going on between them? Were they playing some sort of game? She would have to stay aware of them.

"The Tully support should be the next target. Edmure is your uncle, is he not, Stark."

The Stark girl looked at her with her intense, dead eyes, and Daenerys felt for the first time like she wasn't in control here. There was something about this girl that scared her more than any enemies on the mainland put together.

"A girl has a Tully uncle, that is known."

"Then you will ride to him. Go to the Twins and install his candidate in my name. Then get him to give his armies to us."

The girl bowed her head.

"A girl will do as she is told. A girl has business at the Twins anyway."

"Right. Good."

She turned away from her, and back to the group.

"Then that is all. You are dismissed."

She turned and walked to the balcony as her advisors filtered out. She stepped into the wind and walked out. She felt it running on her skin and through her hair. Somewhere out there… Somewhere in the distance was the Iron Throne, which her ancestor, Aegon Targaryen, the First of his name, had forged with the dragonfire of Balerion the Black Dread. The thought sent shivers down her spine.

"Do you trust her?"

She turned, and found Rogero still there, stood behind her. He hadn't stepped into the wind.

"The little girl. You trust her?"

She had been thinking of this. The Stark girl had joined them at Norvos, but she didn't know much about her history, or why she had been there. She was a mystery. Did she trust her? No. She was a Stark. They had betrayed her father. She could never truly trust a Stark. There was little choice. She needed a Northern supporter.

"No. I need her, though."

"You are a Queen. You don't need anybody. Any man or woman should listen to your commands and die to fulfil them. That is the way of the Khal. You have converted to be too soft, like the Westerosi Andals you look to conquer."

"If any man should do as I command then you should have left when I said. Do not think yourself able to tell me what to do, Rogero. Our bond does not put you on the same level as me. Do not question me."

Rogero scowled. He seemed to be doing that a lot today. Every time Aurane Waters spoke to her he scowled. Did he think that she was attracted to the bastard? He reminded her too much of Viserys. He had very Targaryen like features, but she did not find him that handsome. Only a fool would rather have him than Rogero.

By the time she finished thinking of her lover's poorly thought through jealousy of the bastard that she had just met, she found that he had gone. She hadn't heard him go, but he was absent anyway. Should she go after him? She couldn't love him, and yet she did. She had to marry Willas Tyrell. Couldn't he see that? Couldn't he understand?

She brushed her hand along the surface of the table, and suddenly her mind went blank, and what she knew was in front of her was replaced.

She was instead staring at three figures. One of them was a man, tall and strong, with silver gold hair and a chiselled face. Stood beside him was two women. One of them was beautiful and enchanting, the other had harsh features and a sullen look. She was the oldest, Daenerys could tell. She and the man were wearing all black, whilst the girl was dressed in a red dress with gold and black trimming.

"Shall we begin?"

Then the three were replaced by three more figures stood around the painted table. Her eyes were drawn to the woman who stood above Blackwater Bay. She was in her thirties, and not as beautiful as the younger woman from before, but she was still pretty. She had the same Targaryen hair. She was joined by a hulking man dressed in silver and black armour. He had a harsh but handsome face, with prorominent features, and piercing, purple eyes. The other was the opposite. He was an old, spindly man, with a long, whispy, white beard. His eyes were darting and full of knowledge. He wore a cloak of light blue and silver.

"We must win this war. The Seven Kingdoms depends on it."

Then the three people vanished, and instead she was looking at a beautiful man, with a slender face and figure. He wore black armour, with the three-headed dragon of her house embossed on the front of it in rubies. Knelt before him was a knight dressed in white enamelled armour. He was Dornish, and had a widow's peak of black hair.

"Make sure that she is safe. Protect her."

The Dornishman nodded, and then rose to his feet. The two men hugged, and then her visions ended, and she found herself on the cold stone floor. Where was Rogero when she needed him. He was still gone.

She went after him. She found Marwyn escorting the transport of some books he had been given by llyrio in Pentos. Humfrey was in the courtyard, practicing with some of the exiled knights picked up in Norvos and Pentos. One of them wore a cloak of lemons. He looked Dornish. She was impressed by his fighting skill. She should talk to him later, about a place on her council. If he had allies in Dorne…

She found Rogero stood on the beach, staring out at the sea, towards Essos. She realised then that he had given up his home for her. He had brought all his Dothraki across the saltwater sea. He would never be allowed to return home. He would be an exile, looked down upon, as she and Viserys had been. That was his fate, and he had done it for her.

"You told me once that you followed me for revenge. Who were you talking about?"

He turned to her. There was hardness in his eyes always, but now they were softer, as if he was thinking of something sad and was trying not to cry. She didn't want to see him weep. He should stay strong for his queen. He was not a weak man.

"My father had his enemies. He died mad, never getting the revenge that he wanted. My mother told me that he was a singer, and she told me of his enemies and what they did. I have to avenge him. It is something personal for me."

That didn't really answer her question. He was fighting for her wronged father, though, just like her. Aerys had been painted as mad by the Usurper. That was what Viserys had told her. How true was that? Her brother had not been mad, Rhaegar. Not Viserys. The Usurper and his assassins had driven him over the knife edge. Yet another wrong against her family by the Usurper and his own.

"I will give you justice for your father, Rogero, but you have to listen to me and follow what I suggest. You cannot defy me like you did today."

"I understand. You want me to bend over for you like your knights and grey maesters will. You want to geld me."

He was being dramatic. Night was starting to fall, as the two of them stared at each other. There was a tension between them. She couldn't allow him to defy her like this. He needed to learn his place beneath her.

Then their lips were locked together, and his hands were all over her body, squeezing her behind, and playing with her teats. She moaned for him, and her hands moved to his waist. Stroking his bulge through his clothes, and feeling his chest muscles, rock hard against her slender fingers.

It was silent passion. She had not forgotten her anger at him, but his defiance just made her want him more. She pushed him to the beach, and mounted him, sitting over his hard member as they shared another kiss. She pushed him inside her, and felt him fill her. This was how it was meant to be. He completed her.

She leaned down and nipped at his neck, as she knew that he liked that. He growled as he thrusted in and out of her, bringing her to a sweat. She looked up at the castle. She couldn't care if people saw them. She was their queen. She could do what she liked. She was their queen. Their dragon queen. She would fuck him here. She would fuck him on the Iron Throne. She would fuck him in the bed that the Usurper had stolen from her family.

He was so deep inside her, imbedded inside her. Her juices were flowing out of her and down his member as she panted and rode him. She arched her back, and then leaned down, so that he could play with her teats with his mouth. He nipped at them, and sucked on them, till they were as hard as his own cock. He made her squeal and moan as she rode him. Her horse was a Dothraki khal. Why couldn't she have both him and the Tyrell heir. She could fuck whoever she wanted. She was the queen.

Soon after he spewed inside her, and painted her insides with his thick, white pleasure juice. She carried on riding him, though, to bring herself to climax. As she felt herself coming to climax, she looked to the sky and the stars above her, roaring out to them. She was a dragon queen. She was queen. She was thee dragon reborn. This beach had seen the mightiest of her family's dragons, but her roar of satisfaction and dominance was stronger than them all.

They would dread her. She was a dragon.

 _*Hi there again. Its me! This is yet another author note from me to all of you who read this far. I apologize that the recent chapters have been slower coming out. It has been unavoidable, unfortunately. Anyways, we are now more than half way through the story! I don't know whether that will be a surprise to you, or whether you thought we were nearly finished. Tell me in reviews! I promised you some big moments in Act 2, and this chapter probably had the biggest so far, with Daenerys back in Westeros! I also promised you some big character meet ups, and I hope you enjoyed Daenerys interacting with Aurane. I also promised death. Already you've had Qyburn, Gregor, Lancel, Galbart, Roose, Victarion, and Rolph. Some big deaths there! Expect more! Carry on reading and carry on reviewing, and I'll carry on writing! Next chapter is number 75, so expect a massive chapter to celebrate!*_


	75. Cersei V

Cersei Lannister stood on the battlements of King's Landing, and looked out over the sprawling, stinking city. She hated it. How many of those people had mocked her during her walk of shame? How many had wanted to see her dead? This city was a mass of monsters and morons. Nowhere else in the known world could you find more fools gathered in one place. She was sure of that. Well, maybe wherever Stannis Baratheon was. Anyone who thought that he would be a good king was a fool of the highest order. He would face rebellion after rebellion. No true lord would accept him as a monarch.

She could crown herself, but she would face the same problems as Stannis. Westeros was stuck in the past. A queen was an impossibility. If she took the Iron Throne, as her father should have done, then she would be thrown from it, either by the High Septon's overly pious zealots, or by the ancient, bearded lords of Westeros, who couldn't appreciate intellect in a woman. Those who still lived in the days before the Conqueror came.

The Dornish let women inherit lordships. Maybe that was something that they had right. More women should rule. Too many men were like Robert or Mace. Fat oafs who grew soft with age. Why should men like that rule? Why should men like that rule her? If she could defy them and defeat them then she would.

The Dornish bastard, though. She had a begrudging respect for her. She ruled well, and controlled the Tyrell menace. However, she was just the tool of her uncle. She was a pawn in his war. She just did as he commanded. She was not a truly powerful or political woman. Cersei would defy her. She would beat her. She would burn her.

"Are you sure you want to do this?"

She turned and found Mathis Rowan stood behind her. His eyes were, as they had been these past months, drawn to the swell of her stomach, which held his child. Their bastard. She placed her hand over it. The thought of having a bastard inside her made her happy. It was some revenge against Robert and his countless bastards, and it proved Maggy the Frog to be a lying bitch.

"You don't have to. You could return to the Rock and let it all go. Nobody has to die today, Cersei."

How wrong he was. So many people would count this day as their last. Mace Tyrell and his bitch daughter. Nymeria Sand. Trystane Martell. All the knights and lords who betrayed her for the Dornish. Jalabhar Xho. Meryn Trant. They would die.

"I am sure, Lord Rowan. Go to Lord Hallyne and tell him we are ready. You know the plan?"

There was a look of sadness in the lord's eyes as he nodded his head.

"Yes. Yes, I know what you want me to do."

"And you will do it?"

She hesitated. She could not trust him to do his job properly. He was having doubts.

"I will do it, but I do not think it necessary. It is avoidable. You are angry. I understand that. Do not do something that you will regret."

"I will regret nothing, Lord Rowan. If you want to show yourself as loyal to me then do as I have instructed. Otherwise you are also one of my enemies. You do not want that, do you?"

He hesitated again. She snarled inwardly.

"I do not."

"Then go to Lord Hallyne and tell him we are ready."

Mathis looked like he wanted to say something more, but decided against it. He bowed his head, and then left her. After he was gone, Cersei turned back to look out over the city. She rested her hands on the battlements and started to smile. Then she turned to move, and caught the glint of some eyes watching her from through a window. She snarled inwardly again.

She moved swiftly, but subtly, not wanting to alert the spy that she knew their position. She went into the tower, and quietly took the stairs up. When she found the window she also found Jocelyn Swyft crouched and looking through it.

The girl was plump and fat-faced, and unwed, even though she was in her thirties. No man would take her. Cersei had never trusted her.

"What are you looking at, Lady Swyft? What has your attention so?"

The girl turned around, a look of fear in her eyes.

"My- My Lady. I- I- I can explain."

"Then do."

The woman's mouth dropped open, and she couldn't say anything. She had been given the chance to explain, though Cersei knew what had happened. She had started spying for Mace Tyrell, or so Qyburn had believed. He had promised her a Tyrell husband. She would never get to see him, though.

Cersei went for the wire that she stored in her sleeve. He wrapped it around Jocelyn's throat, and pulled it tight, cutting off her breath supply. The wire dug into the skin, and Jocelyn fought it at first, but then surrendered to death, and then stopped breathing.

She felt something pass through her as she brought a life to an end. It felt good. It felt even better than when Jaime was inside her. It felt orgasmic.

Then she heard the rumbles below the city, and she smiled. She rushed to the battlements, and looked out, waiting for the show to properly begin. She was anxious. This was the moment that she would defeat all of her enemies in one go. They would all know not to tussle with the lion of Lannister. Minstrels would sing of this day, as they did when her father wiped out House Reyne. She would be legend.

The first explosion of green flame claimed the Dragonpit, where Ser Gregor had killed her cousin, Lancel. That was disappointing. She had no enemies there. The flames rose from there, and spread to the surrounding houses and streets. The screams of people burning were audible from here. She smiled.

Then the Great Sept erupted into flames, and she laughed. Had the holy High Septon's gods protected him from her wrath? No. He would burn with his beloved peasants and sparrows. He would burn here worse than in any of the Seven Hells that he loved to talk about so much. His sins were catching up with him.

The courtyard below her had started to fill with people, and others were stood on the balcony, watching on in horror and fear. There was no escape. Her fires of revenge would come for all of them.

There was escape for her, of course. Her and those that she wanted to survive with her. She hurried away from the screams then. She passed the vapid Alerie Hightower, the shrewd Jon Fossoway, and the elderly Tremond Gargalen. She had to hurry.

She found that Boros Blount had left his post at her daughter's rooms. The craven had clearly abandoned it to try and save himself. She pushed open the doors, and found Myrcella and her husband at the window, looking out at the burning city. Myrcella turned when she heard the doors open.

"Mother, something is happening? What is happening?"

"We are under attack, my darling. We must get you out of the city. It might be the fake Targaryen, and he may kill you. We need to see you safe."

Trystane stepped forward. The boy was foppish and arrogant. He was an enemy.

"Where is Ser Boros? Should it not be him escorting my queen to safety, not her mother? Where is my cousin? What does she say on this?"

She tried to look as conscientious as she could towards those questions. Myrcella valued what the stupid boy had to say.

"Ser Boros and the rest of the Kingsguard have gone to the city's defence. I have not had time to discuss the wills of your cousin. It is of more importance that the queen escape the city."

Trystane stayed stood between them. She should stab him and be done with it, but then Myrcella would never accompany her.

"I do not believe you. My father told me not to trust any Lannister before I came here. The dragon is not at the city's gates. No enemies are, for the true enemy is within. This monstrosity is your doing."

She tried to put on a face of shock.

"I would never-"

"Do not lie, Lannister."

Trystane was pushed aside then, as Myrcella herself stepped forward. There was horror and fear in her sweet, little eyes.

"Is- Is that true, mother? Did you do this?"

She gulped, and was surprised to find tears forming at her eyes. This wasn't how the plan was supposed to go. She was meant to save Myrcella from the enemies in the city. She would take her back to the Rock and raise her as heir. How could this Martell boy do this?

"I did it for you. You surrounded yourself with enemies and fools. This city is full of people using you for their own motives. They are enemies. Your Hand. Your small council. Your husband even. He does not love you."

Myrcella turned to Trystane then, and the boy took her hands.

"She is lying, my Queen. I do love you. I have loved you since the day we met. Your mother just wants to use you for your own reasons."

The floor rumbled then, and the three of them fell to the floor. The room started to fall apart. Cersei looked towards Myrcella, and saw a beam fall from the roof. It crushed the Martell boy's head, and Myrcella screamed at the blood. Cersei reached out for her, and Myrcella did, too, but just as they were about to touch fingers, the green flames burst through the floorboards, and engulfed her.

Cersei stared and Myrcella screamed. She was too weak to rise from the floor, so that she just had to lie there and accept the burn. Cersei backed against the wall, and watched her daughter's flesh melt and fall from the bones. She whimpered, and rose to her feet, running from the room, leaving her screaming, dying daughter behind her.

She didn't get very far before she was next thrown to the floor. This time it was because of a bastard flying through the air. She fell down, and found Nymeria Sand's hands at her throat.

"You- You- Everything was going to plan. I had everyone in the palm of my hand. I had you, and Tyrell and the High Septon, but I never thought you were capable of this. I thought even a Lannister had limits. Not even your father-"

Cersei struggled against the bastard as she spoke, and eventually threw her off. The two then got back to their feet and stared each other down. Their chests were heaving. She realised that her dress was ripped and near in tatters.

"I did what I had to do. My father would have done the same. I am his heir. I am the true Lannister heir, even though I have teats."

"You're a woman. That means nothing. So am I. So is my uncle's heir. Women can be powerful and strong without being mad and murderous. You give everything women strive towards a bad name. Nobody loves you and nobody will follow you."

Could the bastard be right? Did she have a point? No, she as an enemy. She had been sent here to destroy the Lannisters. Everything that she said was a lie.

"This war- This war has destroyed the Seven Kingdoms. You caused it, didn't you? You killed your husband. You killed Ned Stark. This is all your fault, and now this. What kind of a monster are you? History would do well to forget your name."

Just then the floor rumbled again, and the floorboards beneath Nymeria collapsed. The bastard fell. Cersei felt a warm feeling rush through her body as she watched it happen. She approached the edge of the hole, and snarled when she found the Dornish girl clinging on, wildfire raging below her. She was clearly straining.

"History will not remember your father. History will not remember your uncle. History will remember you least of all, bastard."

She kicked the girl's fingers away, and she fell into the burning pit below. Cersei felt the same feeling wrack her body as had done before. It felt like she was complete, with Jaime deep inside her.

There were screams all around her as she ran. She spotted Hallyne, the Chief Pyromancer, waiting for her at the foot of what had formerly been the Tower of the Hand. He was her guide out of the city.

"We must go, Lord Hallyne. Swiftly."

"Lord Rowan-"

She turned on the older man. There was venom in her voice. Myrcella was not supposed to die here. She should have listened to her, and not the foppish Dornish boy.

"Lord Rowan is not coming. I gave him the wrong meetup point. He will burn, just like the others. Do you wish to join him? No? Then let us move swiftly and escape these flames."

Hallyne bobbed his head up and down, and then lead her into the ruins. The eunuch Spider knew the tunnels underneath the Red Keep, but so did the Pyromancer's Guild. They had needed them for wildfire storage during the end of the Mad King's reign.

He took her into the darkness of the tunnels below the keep. She felt some pain as she walked, and winced. It came from inside her. It was dull and familiar, but she wasn't sure what it was. The bastard better not have cut her. She did not want to bleed.

The darkness engulfed them, and it was nothing but black, save for the dim light given off by Hallyne's torch. They walked for what seemed like forever, but eventually she felt the feel of sunlight on her skin again. They came out of the tunnels a few leagues away from the city, and when she turned to it, she saw it covered in green flames, a pyre to her legacy and a monument to her success.

She felt the same feeling of joy as before, but now it was combined with pain. She screamed and fell to the floor. She remembered where she knew the pain from now. She had felt it with Joffrey and Myrcella and Tommen. The child was coming. No, it was too early. She would not birth some premature monster like Tyrion. She would not let this child claim her life as Tyrion had claimed their mother's.

She felt Hallyne by her side. She did not want the man to be the one with her as she gave birth, but he was the best she had. She would not let his clammy hands touch her skin. She screamed again, and felt the sweat on her brow. She heard sound around her, but they were distractions, and they would not take away from her success.

Hallyne got up and backed away then. He was scared of something.

"Cersei?"

She would recognise that voice anywhere. They had told her that he was dead, but she hadn't believed them, and here he was, stood before her. Her Jaime was paler now, with a scar down his face, and his hair shorter. He wore battered armour, and a questioning look of sadness. His eyes found themselves to the pyre of green fire in the distance, and his mouth sunk open as he realised what had happened. He turned back to her.

"You did this. Our daughter?"

"She would not come with me. Tommen is gone, too."

There were tears in her eyes as she told him, which she had not expected. Tommen had been weak. Myrcella had been foolish.

"You killed her, Cersei. You killed her and Tommen. You killed Joffrey, too. Not Tyrion. You and your war. You and your lust for power."

How could he be so foolish? How could he think such foolish things? Was he not their father's son? Was he not a Lannister?

"Tyrion killed Joff. That vile imp. How can you still defend him? How can you forgive him for murdering Joffrey and father? He killed your son."

"Maybe he put the poison in Joffrey's glass, but it was you that killed him. It was you that spoiled him and encouraged his madness. You that failed to stop him from killing Ned Stark."

She snarled.

"Eddard Stark was a fool and a traitor. Father saw it-"

"Father fought you a fool for killing him. He was a valuable pawn. He was a good man. I used to think that good men do not survive in this world because they are foolish, but that is a lie. Men like Eddard Stark do not survive because there are women like you. Men like father. Monsters."

"His bitch wife imprisoned our brother-"

Jaime shook his head at her.

"Tyrion's life matters to you now, sister? Moon Boy, Osmund Kettleblack, cousin Lancel. Those were the names that he gave me. Who else, Cersei? Meryn Trant? Preston Greenfield? My brothers? You told me that you loved me. You told me that I completed you. Were all of those words lies? Do you even know who you are anymore? You are more lie than truth, sister."

Just then the bushes rustled, and another man stepped in. He was a hulking beast, with a burned face. Joffrey's dog, Sandor Clegane. How dare he show his face here. Hallyne had risen from the grass then, and started to flee, running off into the trees.

"Are you safe here, Lannister?"

Jaime turned to Sandor.

"Yes. Go after him. Kill him for what he did."

The dog nodded, and stalked after the aged pyromancer. She did not give Hallyne much of a chance of survival against Sandor Clegane.

"You are with child. Whose is it? Trant's? Lancel's? Qyburn's?"

"Mathis Rowan. He is dead. I never loved him, Jaime. I always loved you. That was no lie. That was always the truth."

Jaime came to her then. He knelt by her side. She went to hold his left hand, but he shirked away from her.

"I spent so long loving you, Cersei. I fooled myself into thinking you were my one and only love. My lover. My elder sister."

There was a dim realisation then. She was the elder twin. Jaime was her-

"I loved you."

His hand was wrapped around her throat. She couldn't fight him, not Jaime. He was part of her. How had she pushed him away so? Was what he said true? Had her lust for power and revenge killed Joffrey and Tommen? Had it destroyed everything that she loved?

She felt the life leave her. Her face was wet, though she couldn't tell if it was her own tears, or Jaime's, who was crying as he choked the life from her. Even now, they were mixed and together. Even now, they could not be separated. Even at the end.

I love you, my brother. I love you.


	76. Bran V

He felt the blood running down his muzzle. It had been some time since had eaten from an elk, but they had found this one dead. He got to eat first, of course, and then the rest of his pack. He looked to them, before burying his mouth deep into the belly of the felled elk.

There was the old one, One Eye, who had the feel of a man about him. He had led the pack before, but he had been beaten. Now this pack was his.

Then there was Stalker, the small, lean wolf, who was still young and learning. He was quick, but not strong. He would be useful, and would out live the older wolf. The last one was Sly, the female. He mounted her when she was in heat. He buried himself deep inside her. He released inside her when he was done. She was lucky.

He allowed Stalker and Sly to go next, after he had eaten his fill. The old wolf growled at him, but one glare forced him to quieten. They still stayed staring at each other, though. He saw the old wolf's ears prick up, and then he let out a yelp, and Summer heard the sound of steel hitting flesh. When he turned, he saw a near see-through figure standing there, slender and thin, their sword of ice buried into the neck of Stalker. He swung it around again, as if dancing, and drove it through Sly's throat. The two of them dropped to the ground, limp and dead. Summer bared his teeth at the stranger.

The figure didn't smell of anything. He hadn't liked the smell of the black ranger. He had smelled dead. This smelled of nothing. It was ghostly and strange. He didn't like it. It was unhuman.

Just then, he heard the sound of paws padding through the snow, and when he turned he saw his brother, the white runt of the litter, who should have died but didn't.

The white direwolf padded through the snow, his muzzle wet with blood, which had matted into the fur around his nose. He bared his teeth at Summer, and Summer bared his back. They were not meeting as brothers. It was almost like they were enemies. There was something strange about the runt. It was as if he had changed.

Then there was a yelp, and the sound of something cutting through flesh. Summer turned to see that One Eye had been felled by another of these ice men. He was surrounded. On two sides were the odourless beings, and on the third side was his runt brother. They slowly circled him, and then-

"Summer!"

Bran felt his eyes shoot wide open, and the pain of steel on flesh cutting through him. The pain was intense. It was like he was being boiled and flayed at the same time. It wracked through his body, from his head to his useless feet. He called out in anguish and agony.

He felt Meera kneeling by his side, and saw her mouth moving, though his vision was blurred. He couldn't hear her words, though. The world was silent, except for the excruciating roar of pain that passed through his mind and body. He could feel it hurting him. He could feel himself burning away. It chilled him to the core, yet burned him deeper still.

Summer.

He had felt the moment that his direwolf had died. He had felt it. That was what this pain was. It was the loss of his pet and his friend and his companion. They had killed him. He tried to grab Meera and shake her. He clawed at her, and eventually got hold and pulled her face down to him.

"They- They got Summer. They're- They're coming."

And then Meera was gone. Instead he was surrounded by darkness. A familiar voice spoke to him. Jojen.

"You have to be ready to lose everything, Brandon. You have to know what is at stake. I died for you. So did Hodor, and so did the ranger. The Children sang their song for you, Brandon. More will die, so that you get to where you need to be."

The voice then started coming from behind him.

"How do you beat an enemy, when, every time one of your men dies, they get a new soldier? What is the answer when fighting the dead? Do you see it, Brandon?"

Jojen appeared in front of him, then.

"There is no way to win. Whatever you do then humanity loses."

Jojen's face started to morph then. His skin got taught and wrinkled, and his eyes went a deep red. His skin was pale, but for a wineskin birthmark on the right side of his face. What was this trickery? Could he not even trust his own mind to keep him sane?

"See the true way, Brandon Stark. Fulfil your birthright and join the winning side in this war. You can rule as the King of Winter. You will be lauded as a hero of the cold, as the knight of the dead. You could be the most powerful human to ever exist."

He recognised the face now. This wasn't Jojen. This was Brynden, from the cave. He had died. How could he be here? What was he talking about? Side with winter? Side with the dead? No. No. No. He could not. That was not what he was born to do.

Then he buckled and fell to his feet. He saw his father's execution. He saw Robb being stabbed through the heart. He saw Rodrik Cassell and Maester Luwin die. He saw mother have her throat slit by a nameless Frey. He saw Uncle Benjen dying in the cold. He saw Leaf, and Hodor, and Jojen. He saw Jon Snow bleeding out in the snow. His face was pale, and his mouth trying to speak words that would never come out.

"Gh- Ghost. V- V- Val."

Then he saw the figure all in white dragging his brother's body through the snow. He could see the face now. She was beautiful. Her eyes were light blue and her hair the same colour as honey. It fell to her waist. There was concern in her eyes. She passed through the gate of the Wall, and went for a mile beyond it, into the Haunted Forest. There she stopped.

"You should not have been so foolish, Lord Snow. You should have seen your allies as enemies, and your enemies as allies."

She knelt down besides him, and unbuttoned his shirt. She looked at the wounds for a few seconds, and ran her hand up his stomach. She stopped at his neck, and leaned down to kiss him, and then Bran's vision ended.

Next he was confronted by a vision of his younger brother, Rickon. He looked older, with some level of maturity beyond the six years that he had. His dark haired direwolf, Shaggydog, was at his back. He was cowering from something, and there was a shadow looming over him. When Bran looked up he could see that it was some sort of giant knight, with a mighty sword of blood and fire.

The figure leaned down and grabbed Rickon by the throat, and started to choke the life from him. Bran tried to run forward, but he found that he couldn't move to save his brother.

"You are unable to save them, Brandon. Your brother. Your beautiful sister. They are as good as dead already. There is nothing you can do. The fates have decided that they should die, as the fates decided my beloved should be taken from me. Doesn't that just make you angry, Brandon, Doesn't it make you want to embrace the darkness?"

"No. I can save them. I was chosen by the Old Gods. I will fly! That is my destiny!"

Brynden scoffed. It was strange seeing him whole, and not attached to the weirwoods that had covered most of his body in the cave. He wore robes of black. He had been a brother of the Watch, once. Bran could tell that.

"Crows are liars, Brandon. Your family is dead. What else is there to fight for? Darkness is your friend. Darkness is your cover. Darkness will protect you from the burning fires and light. Say his name, Brandon. He has taken human form. Let him take your mind and your body and you can be immortal. Let the Great Other in to you, Brandon Stark. Then you will be able to fly. Only then."

Bran looked down at his legs. Here he could walk. Here he could dance and run and fight. Back there, in the real world, he was a broken boy. Could the darkness change that? Could the darkness make him better? Could it cure him?

"My little Prince."

He turned then, and saw Meera kneeling over his body. Alliser Thorne was stood at the door to the hall, frozen in time.

"You have to wake, Brandon. We have to go. You said so yourself. They are coming. I will not leave you here. Not after everything that has happened. Jojen. Hodor. Leaf and the rest of the Chldren. They died because they believed that you could save us all."

She was right, as usual. His destiny was with the world of the light. It was with Winterfell. It was with the Stark name. It was with Meera and summer.

Summer.

Darkness had taken his friend and companion. This man and his icy allies had killed Summer. He could never support him now. He would never have been able to support him ever.

"I am not your pet. I am not your friend. I am not your ally. Do not speak to me here. Do not talk with me. Leave my mind and never return. Begone, darkness!"

Brynden started to twitch, and then he screamed. He started to fold in on himself, until he was gone, and Bran was left alone in the darkness. Then he woke up, and was confronted by the reality. Meera was knelt over him, her face wet from tears. Alliser was stood at the door, looking out. When he turned, Bran saw intensity on his thin, sharp features.

"They are coming! We have to go now!"

Meera nodded to him, and picked the reins of the sled he was dragged on. The sled that Ser Alliser had constructed. She started to pull him, and they picked up some pace. When he got outside, he found that the dead had already gathered. They were starting to circle the keep. Three of them charged at the group, but Alliser cut them down well enough. Bran was impressed. He had never seen the man fight before. He was not uncapable.

"Run! Run!"

He called to them, and Meera pushed on more, aiming for a gap in the wall of the dead. Bran could hear Alliser behind them, fighting the dead that charged at them. Some of them were twisted mounds of flesh, others looked no different from regular people. Others were older, and nothing but bones and rotting skin stuck to them.

Meera ran through the gap, pulling him with her. The sword that she had strapped at her waist glimmered in the sunlight. He heard Alliser curse behind them, and turned to try and see what had happened.

He had tried to jump through the gap after them, but one of the dead had grabbed at his ankles and pulled him to the ground. It was a reanimated form of one of his own Black Brothers. The dead man had dark hair, though Bran only saw him from the back. Thorne was pulled into the mass of dead bodies. Meera yelped, but carried on dragging Bran away. He turned, to look forward again, not black, and tried to block out the screams coming from behind them.

He focussed on Meera. It was a good distraction. She was strong, for a woman. She made up for his weakness. She didn't love him, though. She had made that perfectly clear. His love for her was a hopeless one, as were all his dreams. He could never be a knight. He could never be whole. He could never be a sworn brother of the Kingsguard. Did he still want that? A brother of the Kingsguard would be forbidden from loving Meera. If he wasn't broken then she might never have met him. That was some solace, he supposed.

She was panting by now, and the sound of the dead and Ser Alliser had disappeared behind them. They were alone together, in the cold and the snow. They had never been like this. There had always been Hodor or Jojen or Alliser. Was this strange, after she had rejected him?

"He died a better man than he was in life, I think. Sam Tarly told me of Alliser Thorne when we met at the Wall. He feared him. I remembered the name."

Sam Tarly. Yes, he remembered him, The Brother of the Night's Watch that they had met at the Nightfort, with a wildling girl. Gilly, was it? Yes, Gilly. He had told them of the ice monsters and the dead army that lay beyond the Wall. He had told them of the ranger, who he had called Coldhands, and how he had asked for them. He had promised to keep his survival a secret from Jon. Had he done that? Or had Jon come beyond the Wall looking for him? He hoped not, or he would like as not be part of the army of the dead.

He wondered what had happened to Sam. He had never looked for him in his dreams. He had looked for Old Nan, who had been saved from the darkness of the Dreadfort. He had looked for Big and Little Walder, and had seen snow and blood, and Big Walder holding a bloody knife and weeping. He had looked for Jory and Alyn and Fat Tom, but had seen darkness. They were gone. Dead in the south.

He closed his eyes and thought of Sam and Gilly. He saw them travelling on a wagon, through a marshy land and along a narrow path. The Neck. They were coming north. They were still together for now, at least. Bran could see something that they could not. The Wall, in the distance. That was where Sam was heading.

Then he was falling, and his eyes opened again. They were still in the cold wood. Still alone, and he didn't know anything about Sam Tarly's fate that he didn't already know. He hoped he would be safe. He had stricken Bran as being a pure soul, lost in the sea of wickedness that was Westeros. He deserved to live.

The Night's Watch wasn't what it had once been. He remembered his father lamenting that point at Winterfell, when he didn't know Bran could hear. Sometimes it would be to Uncle Benjen, and others it would just be to Maester Luwin. Bran had asked Luwin what his father had meant once, and the old maester had told him that the Night's Watch was now full of criminals, and that there were few men of honour still within their ranks.

His father also liked to talk with Uncle Benjen of a common friend they had at the Wall. He had been a Mormont, Bran knew that, but not his name. They had talked of some secret that they had both shared with him. Bran knew what that was now. Mormont must have known that Jon wasn't Eddard Stark's son at all, but the child of Arthur Dayne and Lyanna Stark, Bran's aunt. Had he also known that the famed ranger Qhorin Halfhand had actually been Arthur Dayne? Or was he not aware of that?

Why did Bran care? Jon was dead, and so was his father and Bran's father and Uncle Benjen, too. Mormont was probably dead as well. Aunt Lyanna was. Rhaegar Targaryen, who had loved another, had died for Arthur Dayne's secret.

Suddenly then it seemed to get colder. The temperature dropped, and the snow seemed to gain a hardened layer of frost, and then he heard Meera have an intake of breath. He turned, and saw what she saw. One of the ice men that had killed Summer. He was angry, but this monster had such beauty, and shimmered in the winter sun. The Other laughed, and it was a beautiful sound, not the cackle that Bran had been expecting. It was like a song of both sadness and happiness. There was regret and joy in that laugh.

"Who are you? What are you?"

The creature cocked his head, and then spoke in a whispery voice that reminded Bran of a cold, winter wind, cutting into your skin. It was somehow both harsh and majestic.

"Stark. Stark. Find Stark."

"Stark? I am a Stark. You found me. Are you going to kill me?"

The Other placed his hand on the sword of ice. Then it spoke again.

"Choice. Live or die?"

"I would rather die than serve you. Nothing would make me do that. Nothing."

The Other drew his sword then, and laughed again, this time as if it was sad at the choice that Bran had made. He tried to prepare himself for the end, as the Other ran forward, his sword ready to cut through Bran.

Suddenly, however, Meera jumped in front of him, the sword that she had taken from the cave in her hands. She met the Other's icy blade, and cut straight through it, smashing it to pieces. The icy monster wailed, as Meera drove the sword into him, and he shattered, gone to the winter wind. The two of them exchanged a look, and then they looked to the sword. It shimmered black.

"Valyrian Steel."


	77. Samwell V

Sam Tarly had never been in the Neck before. Jon had told him all sorts of stories about crannogmen and lizard-lions and moving castles. These were a lands of treachery, and a land feared by almost any sane Westerosi. The Freys despised the Neck, and the people who dwelled within. The crannogmen were not looked on well by most of the houses of Westeros, even those in the North. They were a queer group of people, with queer habits. Sam found it interesting.

Gilly found it less so.

She had known a lot of discofort when she lived with her father, but she had a home, and it was kept clean enough. The Neck Causeway was a dirty place, and it stank of marsh and rotted eggs. Sam couldn't deny that the smell was upsetting him, too.

She was asleep, right now. Sam was sat up late, as he usually was, leafing through the book that Archmaester Marwyn had given him. The Death of Dragons. How would this be useful? Maester Aemon had believed the Mother of Dragons to be the Prince That Was Promised. If that was true, then why did Marwyn want Sam to know how to kill a dragon. Surely there was no dragons in the undead army. The thought frightened him.

Right now, he was reading a passage on how dragons were instrumental in the making of dragonglass, which supposedly was used in the making of valyrian steel. Apparently that was why dragonglass was so abundant upon Dragonstone, the old Targaryen seat. Dragons. What he would do to see one. Sailors in Oldtown had claimed that they lived once more. Armen hadn't believed them. Sarella had. If an army of the dead can be real, Sam remembered thinking, then why can't dragons be also.

Just then, a gust of wind blew into the wagon and snuffed out the candle. It was a cold, biting wind, and made Sam shiver with foreboding. It felt like a blade cutting into his skin. He went to relight the wick, and when he did, he found shadowy figures surrounding him. He started back. Bolton men, he thought, they must be.

"I- I am a harmless brother of the Night's Watch. We take no sides in wars. Leave me be."

"A brother ol the Watch is meant to father no child and bed no women. Yet here I find you sleeping with a woman, and my dreams show her holding your son at her breast. Do you deny this, Samwell Tarly?"

Another figure had stepped into the wagon. He was short, with green and brown riding gear, and a green hood masking his face. What did he mean he had seen Gilly and her child in his dreams? How was that possible?

"I- No- We- She chose to travel with me. For protection."

"Aye, and because the child she took south was not her own. She seeks her own blood, and she will find it. Her child lives, with her people. With her sisters and her aunts, who are one and the same. She is a wildling, and the offspring of a follower of winter. She goes north for that is where her blood calls her. I saw that, too."

Sam was astounded. How could this man know that about Gilly? How could he know about her family and her father? That wasn't possible. Though he knew it was, of course. He had seen things. He knew what magic could happen. Marwyn would tell him to have an open mind. He had to think on this.

"Who are you? Why are you here talking to me?"

"I am the Lord of the Swamps, or at least in name. The crannogmen hold no lords, truth be told. I am more their voice and their representative to the Starks of Winterfell. My name is Howland Reed, Lord of Greywater Watch."

Howland Reed? Sam had heard of him. A friend of Eddard Stark, who had been Jon's father, until he had wrongfully died a traitor's death. Howland Reed had stayed silent throughout this war. Why was he appearing now? What was the purpose?

"You are what interests me, Samwell Tarly. Not her. I have seen you in my dreams many times. You are the key."

Sam shook his head.

"I'm not the key to anything. My father-"

"Your father is dead. Your brother, too."

Sam shook his head again. His father was on the small council and safe in King's Landing. How could he be dead?

"Let me guess, you saw it in your dreams?"

Howland Reed lowered his hood, and a wry smile passed onto his face.

"No. I received a raven from the pretender Queen, Cersei Lannister. She claimed to be responsible for the destruction of King's Landing. Your father was listed amongst the casualties. The news does not necessarily come as bad for you, I know."

Sam was conflicted, the same as he had been when he heard of Dickon's death. His father had never been a good man, but had he been a bad one? He had wanted the best for the Tarly name. He had wanted a proper heir, and Sam hadn't been that. Dickon had been, little use that it had done him.

"The fate of Westeros is in your hands. Samwell Tarly, and there is little you can do to change the path you are already on, I am afraid. Go to the Nightfort, not Castle Black. Then maybe things can be different"

"You talk in riddles, Lord Reed. How can I know I can trust you?"

"I swore my oath just as you swore yours. By water and by earth, by steel and by iron, by ice and by fire. House Reed will remain loyal to the Starks of Winterfell until the end of time or the death of my house and family. Every Reed is born knowing that sometimes the sacrifice of yourself is necessary for the right thing to happen. My son knew that. He is now gone."

"I met him."

Sam blurted it out. He had made a promise to Bran Stark not to tell anyone of his expedition north. He had been worried that Jon would go looking for him. Surely it was long ago enough to share with Howland. Still, Sam felt slightly guilty for sharing it.

"I know. Jojen told me about you. The crow who would condemn us all through his kindness and humanity. I know you well enough, Samwell Tarly, and ultimately you will always do the right thing, even if the consequences are severe. You will look for the good in people. That is where you and your own father are distinct."

What was he saying? How would Sam condemn everyone? If that was true then why didn't Lord Reed just kill him now and be done with it. Why put it off?

"He hated you for what you are going to do, Samwell, but I know how it feels to try and do the right thing and suffer for it. I have seen that in others. "

Lord Reed walked to the wagon door then.

"You will forgive me for what I must do next, I am sure. Know this, however. Any father who is not proud to have you as their son is a fool. They need only open their eyes and see what a strong man you have become. Seeing is the key."

Sam then felt a short stabbing pain in his hand. He looked down, to see that one of the crannogmen had pierced his skin with what looked like a sharp stick. He felt drowsy, and then he tumbled to the floor, unconscious.

When his eyes next fluttered open he found that the dark of the night had passed, and been replaced by the light of day. Gilly's face appeared in his view, looking down at him, concern in her eyes. He realised that he must be lying on the floor. What had happened the night before? Had he really been visited by Howland Reed? Had that really happened?

"Are you alright, Sam? You looked like you were sleeping badly."

"Yes, I- Did you hear anything last night?"

Gilly thought for a few moments, and then shook her head.

"No. I slept fine. Did you hear something?"

Should he tell her about what he thought happened? Was it best that she didn't know? If she thought he was walking into some danger at the Wall then she might try to convince him not to go. He couldn't allow that. Besides, he would sound like a madman. What did Gilly know of men who saw the present and the future in their dreams? What did she know of crannogmen and their queer, secretive ways?

"No- I- I just thought that I should try and stay awake during the nights. To keep you safe. I don't want any harm to come to you."

Gilly stroked a hand across his cheek. The concern in her eyes was replaced by sadness.

"You must sleep sometime, Sam. I can protect you, too."

"With any luck we won't be in these accursed marshes any much longer. Moat Cailin is about half a day's ride from here. When we pass there then we will be in the North proper. When we get there I think we should head to White Harbour. You will be safe there, and you can search for your people and your son."

"Sam."

She interjected.

"Yes?"

"No. When a wildling child is born, they should not be given a name for two years. He will be Sam, when he is old enough to be named. Do whatever you have to do, but your memory won't be forgotten by me, Sam. You are the bravest person I know. That should count for something."

Sam flushed, and looked down at his feet. He had lost a lot of weight since he left the Wall. He could see his feet fine now, without his stomach getting in the way. Was she more attracted to him now he was thinner? Was he less hideous in her eyes?

"Find him, then. Find your people and your family and stay alive."

She nodded, and they ended the conversation then. Gilly stayed in the wagon, as Sam attached the horses and began the ride out front. It was getting colder, he noted, and snow was starting to fall. He shivered, and couldn't let go of the words that the crannogman had told him the night before. He knew he was riding into danger, but how was he the key? How would he destroy Westeros?

When he had felt that piercing pain he was certain that the crannogmen had decided to poison him to avert that. It turned out that they were just knocking him out, but still, why hadn't they killed him? If they knew that he would plunge Westeros into darkness then why not do that? It made no sense.

None of it made sense, though. Jon was dead, despite doing the right things. Leo Tyrell and Alleras, who was actually a girl, had been working together. Men could see the future in dreams. Dragons could return to the world. The dead can rise and fight. What was causing it? Maybe that was the wrong question. Who was causing it? Was it him? How? He was nothing.

"Why do people always talk in such cryptic ways?"

He moaned to himself. He couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching them from the marshes on their left, but whenever he looked he saw no-one. The crannogmen knew how to stay hidden. Was Howland Reed himself following them, or just one of his men? The one who stabbed him, maybe.

It wasn't long after that the ruined castle of Moat Cailin appeared before them. It flew the flag of Stannis Baratheon, which Sam recognised from Castle Black, but also the merman of Manderly twice, and the keys of Locke as well. It was clear which two houses had captured the castle for Stannis.

Sam found it held by thirty Manderly men. Most of them were aged veterans or green boys. The proper Manderly fighters had gone to Winterfell with their lord, they said, and Ser Wylis, who had led the capture of the castle from the north, had long since returned to White Harbour with his retinue. He need not hold a desolate castle when the North's only city called him.

The men were gracious enough, and gave him and Gilly water, but Sam saw no reason to deplete their supplies any more than they needed to, and they headed out the same day, entering the North properly, and beginning the final stages of his journey to the Wall. They had passed through the Reach, the Westerlands and the Riverlands on their journey north, but they were finally here.

That night passed with no incident, and Sam felt that they had left the crannogmen watchers behind. They were free.

The following day they reached the point of the Kingsroad where it split, with one path going north, to Winterfell and then the Wall, another heading west, to Barrowton and on further to the Rills. The other headed east. Towards White Harbour. Here was where he and Gilly would depart. He got down from the wagon, and helped her mount the spare horse that the Moat Cailin garrison had given them.

"Do not forget me, Sam Tarly. When all this is done then you should come to find me. I will be waiting for you."

He inclined his head at that, and balled his hands into fists. It was cold. His face was red and raw, and tears wouldn't help.

"I will. When all this is over."

She smiled, and then rode off, with half their provisions, though she had protested at that. He hoped she arrived at White Harbour safely. He hoped that she found her child.

He mounted the wagon and continued onwards, still thinking of what Howland Reed had told him, and what Gilly had said that same morning. He had to be brave to do what he thought was right. Maybe Howland Reed knew that. Maybe that was why he hadn't killed him. Had he gone to the wagon with the intention of doing that and then decided not to? Had Sam persuaded him that his life was not worth taking.

"A man can only be brave when he is also scared…. Jon told me that. He was more right than I think he ever knew. The bravest men are those who know when to be scared and still fight. I am not a brave man. I am terrified of what is coming, but fight I must. I gave my words to the weirwood and to the Watch. I will fight for Jon and Gilly. For Mother and Talla. For Maester Aemon and for Edd. For Grenn and Pyp."

Sam spurred on the horses, and pushed them on into the whirling snow.

"For the return of summer."


	78. Barristan III

Barristan Selmy saw the Targaryen banner fluttering over Dragonstone, and his heart fluttered with it. The two dragons, Rhaegal and Viserion, flew ahead of them, and he saw them unite with their brother, the monstrous Drogon, in the skies over the island. It was a moment of sentimentality, he thought, but one that could also spell death for thousands of people upon the continent. The Mother of Dragons had her children back.

He had heard tale of Daenerys' accomplishments without him by her side. Some said that she had destroyed Qohor with dragon flames, and others that she had tamed or killed the great Khals of the Dothraki Sea, as she had once done with Drogo. Pentos had bent to her, and Myr would do likewise, soon enough. Volantis was facing a mass slave uprising, with them calling for the Unburnt as their new Empress, exacerbated by the death of Benerro, the former High Priest of R'hllor. The Free Cities were ravaged.

Only Lorath, Braavos, and Tyrosh now stood with no involvement in this war, and how long would that last. Surely the Braavosi would support any emancipation attempts she made, as they had always attempted to do themselves. Maybe the Lorath would follow them.

That was a war for another day, however. Daenerys Targaryen had set her sight on Westeros and the Iron Throne for the moment, as her ancestor, Aegon the Conqueror, had done also. She would take her birth right or burn whatever she could. The latter was what worried Ser Barristan. He did not want her to become another mad Targaryen monarch. She was better than that. She was better than Aerys.

He had visited Dragonstone a few times with the Mad King, but never for long. Aerys and Rhaegar had never seen eye to eye. The Crown Prince had been popular with the people, and Aerys feared him, partly due to the words of the flowery eunuch, Varys, who had polluted the king's mind with fears and worries. He had been responsible for Aerys' madness.

"We should put down a smaller ship and sail to the shore."

Barristan turned, and found the Lannisters stood behind him. There was Tyrion, the kingslaying imp, and his uncle, Gerion, who had been disguised as the Corsair King. Lannisters were untrustworthy, but they had helped him, and their rewards was being brought before Daenerys. They were right here, of course.

"Yes. Fetch Ser Jorah and Daario Naharis. They shall join us on our visit. When we have contacted the queen then we can bring more of our troops across."

Gerion Lannister nodded, and departed, but the Imp stayed, looking out at the dragons. He had seen them the entire journey, but still, every time that he saw them Barristan could see awe in his eyes. He was fixated on them now.

"They are more majestic than I would have thought. They are beasts clearly capable of immense destruction, and yet they are also more beautiful than anything. Is that the way that this world is? Oftentimes, the most beautiful things are also the most deadly. I wonder what that makes me."

What was the dwarf talking about? He supposed that there was some grace to the dragons, though maybe he had got used to it and didn't see it as easily. Still, Barristan didn't enjoy participating in that sort of deep level of thought. It wasn't something that he was particularly good at.

Dragons were dragons, and they could destroy them all in one breath. He feared them. He knew that others did, too. They couldn't be controlled properly without their mother.

Happily, they would be reunited with her soon.

The group of men who made the approach to Dragonstone was a queer one. Barristan was joined by the halfman Imp and his scarred uncle, as well as stony faced Jorah Mormont, extravagant Daario Naharis, Shyra, Gerion's right hand woman, Tom Tidewood, the new captain of the Iron Victory, and Jhogo, the young Dothraki bloodrider to Daenerys. He had insisted on coming.

The Dothraki and Tidewood did the rowing. The Imp sat with his uncle and the Shyra woman, which left Barristan with Ser Jorah. He had hoped they would sit in silence, but it didn't seem like they would.

"She may not forgive me for what I did. You let me back on the Queensguard, but she might exile me all over again. How can I be sure?"

Barristan sighed.

"You cannot. You came all this way knowing that there was a chance she might turn you away. You took that risk. You have to follow through on it."

The Northern knight's brow furrowed at that, as he considered what Barristan had just said. Thankfully, the rest of the journey went by in silence, for Barristan at least. Soon they were on the sand, and then they could step out, and find a welcoming party on the beach. The party was made up of old Dothraki men, some Essosi sellswords and bravoes, and a flamboyant man dressed in light blue silks, with silvery-blond hair. He was a new face to Barristan, though he felt familiar.

"Ser Barristan! It has been a long time since we last met. Do you wish to reminisce over past time and glories, or do you not remember my name?"

The man waited for a few seconds, and then smirked when Barristan didn't respond. He was glad that he hadn't remembered him? Why?

"My name then was Aurane Waters. Now I am Aurane Velaryon. No longer a bastard, but the new heir to Driftmark, and Lord of Blackwater Bay, a title given to me by Queen Daenerys Targaryen herself."

Aurane's eyes flashed over Barristan's gathered group, stopping slightly longer on both Lannisters, and then on Shyra. He steps forward, and bended to kiss her hand.

"I was not told that a lady as beautiful as you would be present, my Lady. Had I known then I would have prepared better, and presented myself first to you than any others."

Shyra pulled her hand away abruptly, but then Barristan saw her eyes flash to Tyrion, and then she stepped forward.

"What a gentleman you are, my Lord. I am no Lady, but I know my ships. Maybe you could show me yours later. I would love to see how long a mast you have."

There was some tension in Aurane's eyes, and Tidewood chuckled under his breath, though everyone could hear it. Barristan stepped forward. He didn't want this moment to be spoiled by the pirate girl seducing the legitimized bastard.

"I assume you were sent to escort us to the castle and our queen, not to make small talk with the women that accompanied us. Show us to the castle. I wish to take my place by my queen's side. I am sure that my fellows do also."

Aurane frowned, but then turned.

"Come then, Ser Barristan. Let me show you to the side of Daenerys Targaryen, the first of her name and queen of all the seven kingdoms."

Aurane led the party on their approach. Barristan walked behind him, and could hear some of the others talking behind them. The Lannisters. Naharis and Tidewood. Jhogo and Ser Jorah. Did they not know the solemnity of the moment? Were they not aware of how important this was?

They stepped into the courtyard, and, where it had been active before, it went silent near instantly. There had been soldiers practicing with swords, and servants busying themselves. The silence was interrupted by the sound of a Dothraki voice.

"Jhogo!"

Barristan vaguely recognised the man that stepped forward as Rakharo, one of his queen's Dothraki followers. Rakharo was his name, maybe. He had left Meereen to go looking for Daenerys after she vanished on Drogon. Clearly, he had found her. The two Dothraki embraced each other. That was the first reunion of the day. At least he now knew that this wasn't some sort of complex trap to lure him ashore and ambush him in the castle. He didn't trust the bastard.

"Ser Barristan?"

He looked up, and saw Daenerys on a balcony, looking down on the courtyard. She hitched up her dress, and then went back inside. He dropped to his knee when she came out into the courtyard a few seconds after. The others did as well, save for Tidewood and the two pirates, the Lannister uncle and his woman companion. He felt her hand on his shoulder, and then on his chin, and she forced him to look up at her. She looked well.

"It is you. I thought I would never get to see you again, my white knight. You came to me. You are truly the most loyal of my followers. I thank- "

She stopped speaking mid-sentence. He saw that her eyes had landed on Ser Jorah Mormont wearing the white of the Queensguard. That had shocked her into silence. Would she be angry with the two of them? It had not been his place to forgive Mormont, let alone name him to the Queensguard. She surely would not be happy.

"Ser Jorah."

Mormont looked up at her then.

"Yes, Khaleesi. I am here, too."

He felt Daenerys' eyes pass between the two of them, but then she leaped forward, and wrapped her arms around the Mormont knight.

"I missed you by my side, my bear. Remind me never to send you away again. You wear the white of the Queensguard- "

"Ser Barristan named me, Khaleesi, for my bravery during the Battle with the Yunkish. I fought for you and in your name, and I will do until the day that I die. You have my word."

She nodded.

"I do not doubt it, Ser."

She turned to him then. Her eyes were more like Rhaegar's than he remembered them being. They were hungry for power and glory. That was not necessarily what Rhaegar had wanted, but he had the same visible drive and desire in his eyes.

"We should go inside, and you can introduce me to your companions. I can do the same. We have plenty of new allies, though not all are still here. Some of them have left on their own missions."

He nodded, and followed her through the door that she had come out through. Inside there was a spiral staircase, which led to a large room that contained the fabled Painted Table, which Aegon the Conqueror had commissioned when he set his eyes on uniting the kingdoms of Westeros. Several figures are sat around it. The first was an ugly man in grey robes. The second was a young boy, no more than ten or eleven years. The third was an old Dothraki male. Was he the great Khal who had supported Daenerys? He didn't look like much. Aurane took a seat at the table besides the young boy. The last person was a Dornish man dressed in simple robes.

"Ser Barristan, I wish for you to meet Marwyn, my Grand Maester, and Motho, Khal of the Dothraki Sea. You already know Aurane. This is his nephew, Corlys Velaryon."

"A famous name."

Corlys nodded at that. There was a hardness in his young features.

"My brother hates me for it. Monterys is a stupid name he says. I agree. He wanted to be Lord of Driftmark, but I am older. I am Lord Corlys, not just Corlys."

He stared at Daenerys, and Aurane smiled sheepishly. Eventually Daenerys acquiesced. There had been some tension in the air.

"Lord Corlys Velaryon, then. He is… Spirited."

She then turned to the last person. The Dornishman.

"And this is Ser Andrey Dalt. He was in Norvos when we passed through, and joined up with us. He is a strong young knight, and the heir to Lemonwood in Dorne. He was in the service of Doran Martell before."

"The Prince of Dorne supports you?"

Daenerys walked to the head of the painted table.

"The Prince of Dorne supports the bastard Baratheon girl. He has picked the wrong side. He will burn for it. Of that you can be sure."

That caused an uncomfortable silence within the room. Andrey Dalt stared down at his lap. The old Khal wouldn't meet anyone's eyes, and even the Velaryon lordling was silent, though that might be because the bastard had hold of his hand. He knew that he had to break it. He turned to his own party.

"May I present to you… Tom Tidewood. Currently the commander of the legendary Iron Fleet of the Iron Islands. He commanded some of the ships that sailed us away from Slaver's Bay."

The bastard Waters looked impressed at that.

"The Iron Fleet is the strongest navy on the seas. With it and my dromonds at our back we could blockade every major port our enemy's control, Khaleesi."

Daenerys looked hesitant.

"The Iron Islands rose against my father with the Usurper. I am not familiar with House Tidewood. Why should I trust this man? What does he desire?"

Tidewood stepped forward then, and did an overly dramatic bow.

"Greatest Queen Daenerys. I am known as Tom Tidewood for I am the bastard son of a thrall and a lordling. I fought against your father's men on the Mander, and my ship went down. I survived by clinging on to some driftwood. I was given the name when I was rescued. As for what I desire… A small amount of gold, and a castle of my own on the Islands would suffice."

Daenerys looked hesitant but eventually nodded.

"Very well. That is a small price to pay for your ships. You shall answer to Aurane. He is my naval commander."

Tidewood nodded, and was then pushed aside by Naharis, who stepped forward.

"I have been kept silent too long. Let me worship my great Queen, as she should be worshipped."

He went to one knee and kissed her hand. It was a lingering kiss. Barristan knew that he had slept with Daenerys in Meereen. He hoped that she would be wise enough to not do so again now that they had reached Dragonstone.

"Lord Daario, it has been too long. I worried that you had not survived."

"No Yunkish man or quavering sellsword would stop me from returning to my Queen's side. I would have killed them all for you, even if they killed me first."

He was brazen and brash, but false and a liar. She would be better without this man near to her. He would only bring her more problems in the long run. He would oppose any marriage pacts, he would urge her to rush into battle. He was not good counsel.

"As it should be. I have a reward for your service, Lord Daario. A seat for your very own. A castle called Rosby. The previous lord was a traitor, and it now sits without a proper ruler. It is nearby to King's Landing, so we would still see plenty of each other. It is a wealthy seat, too. A valuable place to be held."

"Then I will hold it for my Queen, but reluctantly, for I do not wish to leave her alone."

Barristan saw her eyes lock with Naharis'. He couldn't tell if this was a good move. Was she sending him to Rosby to get rid of him, or to keep him close by? Only time would tell.

"That only leaves- "

"Tyrion Lannister, Queen Daenerys."

The dwarf had stepped forward, and did an elaborate bow before Daenerys.

"Though some call me Imp, or Halfman. The Slayer of Lord Tywin Lannister, my own father. The poisoner of Joffrey Baratheon, my nephew. I defeated Stannis Baratheon on the Blackwater. I united the Mountain Clans of the Vale under my banner. I am the rightful Lord of Casterly Rock, and I am here to offer my service."

"What use could I have for a kinslaying, kingslaying Lannister such as yourself? What could you give me?"

"I have already given my credentials. I am an expert Lannister killer. There is no man alive who has killed more of my family than I have."

Gerion Lannister stepped forward then.

"My nephew also served as Hand of the King to Joffrey Baratheon, and kept the city stable, despite serving a mad king. He is clever, and duteous, and loyal, too. I know him."

"And who would you be? Some pirate?"

Tyrion gestured towards his uncle.

"Gerion Lannister, the younger brother of my father. The Corsair King. We are both ready and willing to support your claim. We can bring the support of the West, which you will need."

Daenerys considered this for a moment, and then gave a curt nod. She turned to Barristan again.

"My husband is absent. Where is he?"

He had been dreading this moment. How would he tell her? She had never loved Hizdahr, but he had still been her husband.

"King Hizdahr…. I took him prisoner after you left. I thought him the man that was leading the Sons of the Harpy. He was then attacked and murdered in his prison cell. I took prisoner the men responsible."

"And they were?"

"Marselen the Unsullied and Skahaz mo Kandaq."

That didn't seem to surprise her much. Had she expected the Shavepate's betrayal? How could she have known? Had she known that Hizdahr was dead before she asked him? How?

"They are dead then? You executed them?"

"No. I wanted for you to sentence them first. You are the Queen after all. I am not. That is your decision. Strong Belwas is looking after them. I instructed for him to bring them across after we landed. They should be here by now. They are yours. As is Ben Plumm, who betrayed you."

She went to the balcony then and beckoned for him to follow her. He did, and then they were together. The others could not hear them, yet still she talked in a muted whisper.

"You are my Hand, Ser Barristan. You can execute traitors without my command. You can rule in my stead without my presence, or else what is the point in your position. Brynden Bloodraven. Corlys Velaryon. Viserys II. They were capable Hands because they ruled when their kings could not. You must do the same, or should I find someone more fitting? Lord Aurane is glib with his tongue, and Rogero is good with his arakh. Should I give the honour to them?

The bastard Velaryon was just that, a bastard. He should not be on the Small Council, let alone serving as Hand. He was sweet of word, but not of manner, He could not be trusted. Where had he got those dromonds? They were not Velaryon vessels.

"I can serve, my Queen."

"Then take Marselen and Skahaz down to the beach. Read them their sentence. If they are guilty of treason, then they should die."

"Ben Plumm?"

She shook her head.

"I will spare Ben Plumm for now. He will die, but now does not seem the right time."

Barristan nodded, and walked away from her. He gestured for Jorah to follow him, and he did. The Dalt knight came too, though he did not ask him to. Outside they found Belwas and the three prisoners. Barristan had Jorah grab Skahaz, and Dalt grab Marselen, dragging the two down to the beach. When there, he forced them both to their knees and stood over them.

"Skahaz mo Kandaq. Marselen of Naath. You have been brought here to be tried for treason and conspiring against Daenerys of the House Targaryen, the first of her name, the Unburnt, the Mother of Dragons, the Breaker of Chains, and the Queen of the Andals, Rhoynar and the First Men and her husband, Hizdahr zo Loraq. My name is Ser Barristan Selmy, Lord Commander of the Queensguard and Hand of the Queen."

He stopped there, and looked down at the two men. Marselen was quiet, staring at the ground. Skahaz was looking at him, anger in his eyes.

"You conspired with me to remove Hizdahr from his position, Ser. Now you make me kneel here for treason, when you should be knelt beside me."

"Silence!"

He shouted at the beach in general, but it was clearly addressed at Skahaz.

"You have admitted to conspiring against King Hizdahr. You have previously admitted to his murder. In the name of my Queen, I find you both guilty of regicide and treason. Ser Jorah, hand me my blade. Now you may speak."

As Jorah stepped forward with a sword, Skahaz spat on the ground.

"You are no bold knight, Ser. You twist your fancy words to defend yourself and create a villain in me. You are a weak man. You are as much a slave to Daenerys as the people that she freed. You're an old man who broke his oaths , and now intends to redeem himself by bending over for his queen whenever she asks him. You are nothing, and your legacy should be stained."

Barristan bowed his head at that. He wasn't right, of course. He was a villain. He had killed Hizdahr and the Meereenese children. He was a monster. Barristan was in the right. He supported the right Queen. He would be a good Hand in her name.

"And you, Unsullied?"

Marselen looked up at that. There were no tears in his eyes, but there was a sadness to the usual steel. Then there was fear.

"D- D- Dra- "

Then there was a burst of fire and flame. Barristan held his arm up to shield himself from it, but still he felt the burning heat. It did not engulf him like it did the Unsullied and the Shavepate, however.

He watched them melt.

He heard them scream.

He would never stop hearing them.

It reminded him of something. Of someone.

"Aerys…"


	79. Patrek VII

Patrek awoke early that morning, and found the light of the dawning sun filtering through the door of his tent. Jeyne was asleep beside him, naked. He averted his eyes. She was asleep. He felt that he was intruding on her at this time. Despite what they had done the night before. It was strange. They had loved each other that night, and the night before that, and yet now he was uncomfortable looking on her naked form. Was that strange? Did all men find that? He had slept with women before, of course, but whores mostly. Did they count?

He pulled himself to his feet. He was naked, too. He didn't mind that. He liked the feeling of the cold wind on his skin. It made him shudder, though. Winter had properly come, then. It would be snowing soon. It already would be in the North, maybe even around Seagard and the Twins. He remembered playing in the snow with his father and younger brother. He hoped that they would both be alright. He hoped that they were both still alive.

He shrugged on his underclothes, and then a jerkin and breeches. His ceremonial sword went to his belt. It had been a gift from his father. He wore it whenever he could. He had been given it on his fourteenth nameday. He called it Eagle's Wing, though not to most people. Only select friends and family knew about it. He did not want to be seen as arrogant.

"Ser Patrek!"

A messenger entered the tent. He spotted Jeyne asleep, but made no mention of her, instead turning to Patrek.

"I have been sent by Lord Jonos Bracken, the Hand of the King. He calls you to join him in breaking his fast with Lord Karyl Vance and Lord Gerion Chambers."

Patrek grimaced. Edmure had named Jonos Hand after the taking of Casterly Rock, no doubt under Bracken's own insistence. He had secured the support of the Vances, Pipers, Smallwoods and Lychesters, which made him a powerful vassal. He needed to be given what he wanted if Edmure wanted the continued support of those houses.

That didn't make him any less detestable.

"Very well. Tell him I shall be along shortly."

The messenger hesitated.

"I have been told to escort you, my Lord. Lord Jonos said that he did not think you would actually come, even if you said that you would."

Jonos was right, of course. He was not as thick as he looked. Patrek had never intended to go to him and dine with three of his least favourite people in Edmure's army. Why could it not be with Lord Tytos or Ser Brynden? Or he could break his fast with Jeyne. That would be far more preferable to this.

"Very well. Escort me."

He pulled on his cloak, and followed the messenger out into the biting cold. The ground had started to frost over. There was no chance of them getting out of the Westerlands before the snow came. There was even less chance of them making it to Riverrun like Edmure had hoped. They would be lucky to get past the Golden Tooth before the snow made their return unpassable.

He tightened the tent entrance closed, so that Jeyne was safe from the wind, and then posted two of his most trusted men to make sure nobody undesirable entered the tent whilst he was gone. He did not want to leave her at all, but better to leave her so she wasn't entirely undefended.

It was still early in the morning, but already Patrek could hear the voice of a singer. He sung some sort of drinking ballad about Edmure's success at the Rock

"And Good King Edmure took the Rock and the rains fell for the lion, then he took the lion's timid cousin and he sent him flying. For Edmure was the best of kings who ruled from rivers west, he singed the lion's furry pelt and upon the Rock, pissed off the edge."

The singer eventually came into sight. He was a short man dressed in green, with a long, thin nose. He had best be careful. Edmure did not best like singers, and though he would put up with them if they were singing of his greatness the wrong song might lead to the minstrel losing his tongue. There was one song in particular…

"What ho, Ser Mallister! A silver stag for a song? A golden dragon to take me into your service? As loyal and as nimble a minstrel as Tom o' Sevenstrings you will not find on this side of the Narrow Sea. I am sure I can make up some ballad of the great deeds of House Mallister, or of your ways with women, if that be your fancy."

He shook his head.

"Maybe later, minstrel. It is early in the morning, and I fear your music would cheer me up little from what has to happen. Come see me in the evening for supper. I may listen to you then."

The man bowed and then danced away, to find some other highborn knight or lord to sweet talk, no doubt. He didn't dislike singers as much as Edmure and Marq had, but he preferred other forms of entertainment, such as watching his father partake in a joust. Singers loved the sound of their own voice. It was essential to the profession.

The rest of their journey was undisturbed. He tried to walk slowly, to put off the inevitable, but the biting wind caused him to want to find shelter, so eventually he gave up on that. The messenger was silent. He was a Bracken man. He knew that Jeyne had been in Patrek's bed. That meant that Jonos would know soon enough. He hadn't wanted that.

It wasn't long before he arrived at the tent. Gerion Chambers and Karyl Vance were already present, and sat on either side of Lord Bracken's table. Jonos himself was seated at the head of the table. Patrek bowed to the three men, reluctantly. None of their houses were as powerful as the Mallisters of Seagard, but they were all lords who had the king's ear. He was only a knight.

"Raise yourself, Ser Patrek. We are all friends at this table. We are all strong supporters of King Edmure. Nobody has to feel below anyone, just because they are not on the same rank as the rest of us."

Gerion Chambers scoffed at that.

"It is true that Ser Patrek should feel at home with us. He is a noted military commander after all, but you are Hand of the King, my Lord. We all owe you service and respect. Anything of me or mine that you desire then you can have, save for my wife or daughters as a bedmate."

"And I would never ask for those things, my Lord. I thank you for your kind words."

There was nothing that Jonos Bracken liked more than having his sense of self importance inflated. Chambers knew that. He was playing the lord. Could Bracken not see that? Was it not obvious? Or had his desire for plaudits blinded him to what his supposed friends and allies were doing? It was probably the latter.

Edmure had not seen fit to name Jonos a commander of men. He had sent Gerion with Theomar Smallwood. Karyl Vance had gone with Marq Piper. Patrek had gone north with the Blackfish and Lord Tytos Blackwood. Jonos had stayed at Riverrun with Edmure. He had gone with him to the Golden Tooth when the king moved. He had corrupted Edmure. He had pushed him closer to the edge of sanity, and this was his reward. To be named, by title, the most powerful of Edmure's sworn lords.

Patrek seated himself. He felt the eyes of Karyl Vance boring into him. He had not forgiven Patrek for threatening one of his cousins at Casterly Rock. He was a bitter, twisted man. He was a strong fighter, though, and a good battle commander.

"Let us get straight down to business, Ser Patrek. I require three hundred of your men."

Patrek looked up at that, and stared at Lord Bracken.

"Lord Chambers and Lord Vance here have already provided me a hundred each, but the Mallisters are more powerful, and your armies were untouched by the first half of the war."

Patrek shook his head.

"Those men are sworn to my father. Not to you. I will not allow you to have them."

"I am the Hand of the King-"

Patrek scoffed.

"You are not my liege lord, Jonos. I am not required to contribute men to whatever cause you wish to fight. If my King wanted me to provide you with my men then he would be here, and he would have told me to do so. Only then would I consider it."

"Lord Bracken is the second most powerful men in this army, Mallister. You should learn to watch your tongue."

Patrek turned back to Vance.

"If he wants to demonstrate his power then I will happily duel him for my command. I will duel to you. How much reminding of my standing do you require, Vance? Should I fight you until you die, or just until I spill your blood?"

"Why you impudent child-"

Karyl slammed his fist down on the table, and Patrek stood. He spat on the floor, and turned back to Jonos.

"If you would have my men then have Edmure himself come and get them. You know where I am. Now, if you would excuse me, my lords, I have more meetings this morning."

He turned to leave, but Jonos called out to him.

"Meetings with Robb Stark's widow, perchance. Maybe she would be willing to hand over your men for you. I could send Lord Karyl to force her allegiance."

Patrek was nearly shaking as he turned to confront the lord. He could feel the hatred burning from his eyes.

"If you touch her then I will destroy you, Bracken. Not just you. Your family. Your home. I shall burn them all, so men speak of House Bracken no more. It will be more than a bastard and a nephew that you will lose if you prompt my wrath. You better believe me."

That caused silence from the three gathered lords. They were stunned, and he swept from the tent and stormed back to his own. The anger was near consuming him. Was this how Edmure felt? Was it this kind of thing that had pushed him as far as he had pushed? Jonos had stirred up this kind of anger in him. Maybe he just had a talent for it.

He found Jeyne already awake in his tent. She had dressed herself in cream dress, with silver trimming around the sleeves. The sight of her helped to calm him. She smiled at him, and he melted. Did he love her?

"A message came for you whilst you were gone, my Lord."

"I am no Lord. I'm not like the rest of these men. Jonos Bracken, Karyl Vance, Gerion Chambers… I cannot stand the sight of them."

He walked over to where a piece of parchment had been placed. He picked it up and started to read it. His heart dropped as he did. Jeyne could clearly see that, for she went to him, as if to comfort him, but he turned it away.

"What is it? What does it say? Who is it from?"

"My father. He desires for me to marry Tysane Frey, the eldest daughter of Lothar Frey, the cripple of the Twins. She is a girl of eight years. She is a child."

Patrek struck the table in a fit of anger, and then slumped down into a chair. He put his hand to his mouth. Could he really defy his father?

"He promised me that I would always be able to pick my wife when I was ready, provided she was highborn. He promised me that at least. Why this sudden change?"

Jeyne picked up the letter and read it quickly. She then knelt down in front of him.

"Lothar Frey was- He was one of the ones who helped to murder Robb, was he not? Do not blame his daughter for that? He deserves death for what he did, not a son as strong and as good as you. Marry the girl if you must, but do not blame her for her father's crimes. That is wrong."

He took her hand and squeezed it tight.

"Should I wed her? She is a girl. She is not the woman that I love. She never will be."

Jeyne kissed his hand lightly.

"I cannot be either, Patrek. I must live my life as a widow. I loved my Robb. I feel strongly for you, you must know that, but it is not the same. I will always love him. It would be unfair on you if I pretended otherwise. One day, maybe… Now is too soon. I may never stop loving him."

"I can wait. I would wait for you."

She shook her head.

"Your house needs you. I know that. My life may pass me by and I may never stop loving Robb. Would you truly want to live a life without love on the off-chance that one day I may be willing to return those feelings to you? I have experienced love, Ser Patrek. I would not want a man as good as you to live without that feeling. I do not want to be the woman that stopped you from living."

There were tears in his eyes as he stared at the ground. How could she do this to him? He thought that she cared for him? He had thought-

He got up to his feet and stormed from his tent. He could hear her calling out his name from behind him, but he did not turn. He did not care, not anymore. He ran past the singer from earlier. He ran by Tytos Blackwood and Brynden Tully, past the tent of Jonos Bracken and King Edmure. He passed Gerion Chambers and Theomar Smallwood, and then he stopped, on the edge of the camp. Alone. Or so he thought.

"Rare is it that I have seen a man run as fast as that, Ser Patrek."

He recognised the voice. He turned, and found the last man that he wanted to see. Karyl Vance. Why could this man not leave him alone? He was not in the mood for barbed words and threats of combat.

"You talked well this morning. Jonos Bracken and Gerion Chambers are both fools. They needed a man to tell them that."

"I was talking to you as well, Vance. You support him. You support Edmure's madness."

Vance moved to stand beside him, and looked out at the hills of the West and the gathering clouds in the distance.

"You should be careful. Words like that will get you killed. I will not share what you have just said, even though Lord Bracken would be more than delighted to hear it. He desires a reason to remove your head from your shoulders. Do not give him it."

Patrek turned to Vance, a look of surprise on his face.

"You're offering me advice? Why?"

Vance shrugged.

"Edmure is not a well man. He is surrounded by people like Lord Bracken and Gerion Chambers. You are an honest man. He needs more people like you and less like them. He wants you to help him. I can tell when he talks about you. You just need to find a way to start talking to him. Find a way to fight this madness that has taken him over."

Patrek nodded, and thought. He should be fighting to save his friend, not pushing him away. Edmure had done some terrible things, but maybe the person that he really was could be salvaged.

Patrek turned, and took Vance's hand.

"This doesn't mean that I like you. Wrong me and I will kill you."

"I wouldn't want it any other way. I wait for the day we finally get to cross blades."

Patrek turned then, and left Vance alone in the cold, biting wind, before walking back towards the camp. He could feel small, cold droplets of snow landing on his exposed skin. Thecold feeling bit into him. He returned to his tent, hoping to talk once more with Jeyne, the woman that he was now certain that he loved.

She was already gone.

She had not just left, though. There was the sign of a tussle. The chair had been thrown to the ground, and the table, too. Some of the silver lining had been torn from her dress and had fallen to the floor.

He knelt down to pick it up and clenched it in his fist.

"Bracken."

Then he felt something hit him over the back of the dead. He collapsed forward, and his world was nothing but darkness.


	80. The Bloody Envoy

The wind was a cold one that hit the girl that was watching. She was as quiet as the Faceless Men had taught her to be. The trees kept her from being seen. They were her cover and her protection, for if she was discovered then her plan would almost certainly have been ruined and she may end up as dead as the rest of her family. She was a Stark. A girl was a Stark, not no-one. Her family would live on through her. Robb and Sansa. Father and mother. Her brother Jon, who she had not heard of. He was probably dead somewhere in the cold north of the Wall, with Uncle Benjen.

The men that she was watching had wronged her family. They had participated in the murder of her brother Robb. They wore the badge of the Freys. The twin towers that had been responsible for the death of her brother and mother. She would make these men pay.

She had been watching them for three days now,. The Faceless Men had told her that knowing a target's movements and mind was half of killing them. IT allowed you to plan for how best to kill them. She knew these men's plans, and she knew how she could use them to her own advantage. These men would all die, and it would be more than they deserved.

There was the man who called himself Arwood. He was tall and lean, and frequently bemoaned the lack of camp followers. He was married, though. She had discovered that out from Harys Haigh, a knight whose mother had been a Frey, before her death. He was a large man who liked his wine and had a boisterous laugh. He was also weak. He commanded their supplies, and would be no problem to get rid of. In fact, she had already disposed of him the night before. A girl had left his body to rot in a ditch, as a man like him deserved.

Then there was the leader. Walder Frey, or Black Walder as his men called him, though never in hearing distance, unless they had been drinking. One of them had, and he had been hanged and left for dead. A girl had cut him down and put him out of his misery, after he had told her some vital information, of course.

It was dark now, and the camp was asleep, save for the sentries posted around the edges. A girl must get past them. A girl must, if she wanted her justice.

The darkness was her friend and her cover. These men were lazy. They did not expect to get attacked. Their fires would give her away, though, so she avoided them, and slipped into the shadows and past them. She heard one of them snoring. Foolish man.

"Hey, you!"

She vanished in to the shadows as a man called out. She could hear him approaching. He had a strong step and a long stride. She could hear it when she closed her eyes. She knew who it was from the sound of the steps. Arwood Frey, Black Walder's second in command.

"Are you asleep at your post, boy? What would happen if Jason Mallister arrived now and stormed the camp? You would be the first to die, and the rest of us would follow. You know who would be to blame? You. Take him away!"

Two men rushed forward and grabbed the sleeping man and dragged him away. Neither of them saw Arya, who hid herself in the shadows. The shadows were her friend and her mask. She wore them as a disguise. As if they were a face or a mask. They would conceal her from being attacked and being noticed. They made her safe.

"The fool will hang."

She heard Arwood Frey whisper. Then he laughed. She desired to slit his throat and allow the blood to spill to the floor. She could not, though. She could not let the Freys be aware that she was here or had been here. They had to be unaware. Arwood would die on the morrow, with his master. They would fly and she would watch. Justice.

She sneaked behind the Frey man's back, and towards the supply tent. There, she found the ropes and the grappling hooks. She smiled, and removed the knife from her sleeve. She had Needle, of course, the weapon of Arya Stark, but it was a girl's blade made for stabbing, and would serve her no good here. She needed a knife. Some jobs just needed a knife.

It did not take her long to finish, but by the time that she did the sun was beginning to show it's unwelcome head. She must go before the cover of darkness abandoned her. She must flee.

The exit from the Frey camp was less eventful than her entrance. She found a Frey on the post that had been vacated before, but he was looking the wrong way, and by the time that his head had turned, she was long gone into the forest and the trees. They provided these Freys cover from the Tully force, but they also provided her cover from them. This was safe a mask as the darkness. It was her protection, just as much as the darkness was. She had done her job. The Freys would die.

Her camp was set up about two leagues away from the Frey camp. It was small, with her few belongings stored in the trees. That was where she slept, too. There was no time for sleep now, however. She had a wedding to attend.

She swept through the forest to the edge of the tree line, and looked out. There were Frey banners here, too, but they were not enemies. They were joined by Mallisters and Grells and Blackwoods, too. Her father had been friend with the Blackwood lord. He had told her about him. He had said the Mallister lord was a good man, too. Was this the same man? Could he be trusted?

They also flew the Tully banner. The leaping trout of her mother's house. Her uncle was the Lord of Riverrun now. She had met him just twice. Once on a visit to Riverrun with her mother and Sansa and Robb, and once when he came to Winterfell to visit mother and father. He was a good man, her mother had always said. He was kind and forgiving and rash. There was no such thing as kind men in this world. There was no man who was forgiving or good. All men want is drink and women and blood. Was she any different? She lived for her justice. When it was done, then she could die. Not before though.

"Cersei Lannister. Jaime Lannister. Ilyn Payne. Raff the Sweetling. Rorge. Biter. Black Walder Frey. Lothar Frey. Theon Greyjoy."

They were the names. Soon at least one of those would be removed from the list. Some she may never see again. She could not remember the face of Raff. Rorge and Biter's hideousness was something that she could never forget. They would stay in her mind, but it was possible that they were lost from her. Gone into the wind. Maybe they were already dead. It was more than they deserved.

The Mallister camp was busier than usual. She watched it most days. Sometimes days passed by where nothing much happened, other times they came under attack from Black Walder's men. This was a small warzone in the middle of a large battlefield. There would be death and blood. There had to be. Maybe these Mallisters would be amongst the casualties.

One of their men had told her that a wedding was going to be happening. That the Tully Frey, Perwyn, was to marry the Lady of Darry, who wanted to be the Lady of the Twins. She was another Frey. There was too many. How did they all know each other's names? Too many Walders and Waldas. Too many. She must cut down the list. A girl would have her justice.

She saw a procession coming into the camp. A procession of Freys wearing the twin towers of Frey and the plowman of Darry. She recognised the Darry sigil from her travels with the Hound. He was dead now. Everyone she loved was dead now. He was, too.

"Soon. Soon they will all be gone. Frey and Lannister and Baratheon and Clegane. Today he attacks and today he dies."

Then she heard the calling. The sound of commotion coming from the castle that spanned the Trident. It was happening now. They were earlier than she had been told. Maybe the Frey man had lied to her. No, she had seen the fear in his eyes. He was honest in fear and in death. She trusted the dead man. She had no reason not to.

She quietly ran through the forest and the trees, towards where she knew that the Twins were. There was the calling of men and the sound of the running river beneath the bridge. Even here the Trident was strong. Even here it would pull you under and drown you. There was no surviving these waters if you fell in. That was why the Twins were so rich, and House Frey had become rich with them.

She reached the Twins, and looked over to them, and she saw what she had wanted to see. The dead man hadn't lied. He could hold no secrets from her. No man could. Not if she had the right tools to hand.

Black Walder Frey was attempting to scale the western of the two castles with the grappling hooks from before, bypassing the need to break down the gates. He was leading the charge himself, as she had expected. He was predictable and brash and hot-tempered. He had hanged a man for giving him the wrong name. She watched in anticipation as he threw the hook up to the battlements and began his climb. She felt the hot climax rush through her body as she watched him fall.

Justice.

She collapsed backwards and bit her lip as she heard him scream, then the sound of him hitting the water. She felt the feeling rush over her, as the waters of the Trident rushed up to meet him. He was pulled under, and his screams could be heard no more. He was gone. Justice. Justice. Justice.

Then the feeling faded, and she found herself breathing heavily. Her job was not done. There was one more that needed to die today. There was one more that she had to deliver justice to. She needed to change clothes first. These were wet now, and dirty, and they smelled. She had saved some for today. Today was a special day.

She returned to her camp, and was glad to find that it hadn't been discovered. She stripped out of her clothes, and went to get the new pair. Her ears pricked, and she realised that somebody else was here, watching and waiting.

"A naked girl in the forest? Are you one of these Northerners who worship trees, girl? Is this how you do it? Isn't it a bit cold for this sort of thing? Mind you, I suppose you're used to it if you come from beyond the Neck."

She turned, and grimaced. Arwood Frey, a smile passed over his face.

"You're pretty attractive for a naked forest girl. You aren't some old crone. You're face isn't great, but the rest of you- More than good enough for me now. Get on your hands and knees, girl, and I'll allow you to live. You might even have the blessing of getting a Frey growing inside you."

He stepped towards her. She bit her lip in anger. How could she have been this foolish. Her knife was in the pocket of her breeches. She would need to improvise. She remembered the courtesans of Braavos and how they had moved. She tried to do her best to imitate them. She walked to him, and put her hand on his chest.

"Please do not take me here, brave Ser. Surely you have some sort of camp. It will be most uncomfortable for you here, and I can show you what I can do with my mouth if you give me some place warm."

The man gritted his teeth and frowned, before nodding his head.

"Very well, girl. Pull on your clothes and I'll take you back to my tent."

She smiled, and turned to her clothes, bending over provocatively to pick them up. It took her only a few seconds to pull them on, and then she walked back over to him. She leaned up to the eager Frey man and kissed him on the lips, before moving hers to his neck and nipping at his skin, before biting down hard on his skin, causing him to bleed and scream. She then drove her knife between his legs, before pulling it out and letting him to fall to his knees, bleeding and crying and screaming. This was no more than he deserved. Justice.

She walked behind him and drove the knife into the back of his neck, causing him to collapse forward into the snow. He was whimpering now, and his blood was staining the ground.

"I told you I'd show you what I could do with my mouth, brave Ser."

She left Arwood Frey behind to slowly die, before heading back towards the Twins, a slight smile on her face.

The Frey troops had all gone up to the battlements to fight whichever of Black Walder's men had managed to actually get up there, and the gates were unmanned and unguarded. Entering was far too easy. Nobody came forward to stop her. She walked into the castle like she was a ghost. Nobody noticed her. She knew where she was going.

Three dead Frey men later and she was at the doors to the great hall of the Twins. This would be where her target would be waiting. She found him there, sat in the chair that he had claimed from his father. Lothar Frey, the unlawful Lord of the Twins. He backed himself. He had been castellan before, and had organised the Red Wedding with Tywin Lannister and Roose Bolton. That was according to one of the Freys that she had taken prisoner. He didn't look like much. He certainly didn't look like much of a murderous mastermind to her.

"What news, servant? Is my nephew dead? Did our men kill him?"

She curtsied before the pretender lord. He did not recognise her. There was no reason for that to be the case. The two of them had never met, though she had been imagining this moment for some time. This was the moment where she would finally get her revenge on him. Justice.

"Yes, m'lord."

Lothar nodded, though the scowl did not leave his face. There was no remorse for the death of one of his family members. He still had three at his gates, though. There was no reason for him to be too happy just because one of the others was gone. The odds still weren't in his favour. This was still a war that he would struggle to win. He beckoned for her to approach him.

"Pour me some wine, girl. That is the extent that I will celebrate this news. Not until the foolish Perwyn and his whore wife are dead can I be happy. Then there is the Bradamar boy. The Iron Bank back him."

Lothar then looked up at her, as if astounded that he was sharing with her. He was clearly shocked. She stepped closer to him, and picked up a jug of wine from a table to Lothar's right. She poured some into a goblet, before sprinkling some powder in, but subtley, so he would not notice. She could hear the sound of wedding bells in the distance. The irony did not escape her. She handed the goblet to the lame lord.

"Bah. Those cravens dare not attack me. They just ally together and plot to remove me. They won't. Everyone here is loyal to me."

She gently laid her knife down on the table, and still he didn't notice it.

"How old are you girl?"

"Thirteen. m'lord."

He grunted.

"I don't recognise your face. I know all the servants here, and yet I do not know you. Who is your father?"

"My father was a good man. I think you knew of him."

"My father was not. You should know him, too. Walder Frey, the Kingslayer. That's what he called himself. Fool. It was I that organised the death of the imposter Wolf King. I get no credit for that, though. Typical."

He took a sip from the wine. Then put the goblet down. That wasn't enough. He needed to drink more.

"Thirteen means you haven't properly flowered yet, correct? Strip yourself, girl. I have to celebrate the death of my dear nephew."

These Freys… This was the second one today that had tried to use sweet words to mask the fact that they wanted to rape her. Did he think himself clever? Of course, she would not let some weaselly Frey inside her. She needed him to drink his wine. Wasn't this swine married? Surely his wife could give him more than she could?

"Here, m'lord? In the great hall? Would you not rather have me in your bed?"

This trick had worked on Arwood Frey. Maybe it would work on this lecherous lord, too.

"My bed is for my wife, girl. No-one will disturb us here, and even if they did, I am Lord, and you are my serving girl. Your cunt is mine to do with as I wish. Your mouth and arse, too. Your husband may not thank me in the future, but you will. You are mine, and I will take you however I want, and then you will thank me for the honour."

She looked down at the floor. This one was not as much a fool as the rest of his kin. He was smarter. Here he was closer to his guards. Was he really suspicious? Did he think her an assassin? Was that why he asked her about her father?

"Very well, my Lord. Here. Would you like me on my hands and knees?"

"I would like you on my lap, girl. Remove your clothes and come here. I want to taste your young, barely developed nipples in my mouth."

She did as he said, and removed her shawl. Fortunately the knife was already on the table. He still hadn't noticed it, though she could not risk picking it up now. If he made a commotion here then he was sure to attract guards. No, she needed him quiet.

He licked his lips as he looked at her. At Winterfell they had always told her that she was ugly. Arya Horseface. Arya Underfoot. Maybe that had all changed. She tried not to look too excited as Lothar went for his wine. Drink it. Drink it all.

He did. He gulped it down, and then dropped the goblet to the floor. He didn't notice the effects at first, but when he tried to call to her he realised. His words caught in his throat, and she smiled. He clutched at his throat. She laughed.

"It isn't enough to kill you, m'lord. Just enough to keep you quiet. You're alive for now, at least."

She picked up the knife from the table, and then pulled her clothes back on. She turned to him, and smiled wickedly.

"I'm going to tell you ten things about me, m'lord. For each of those things, you will feel immense pain. More than you are already. You got that? Good. My name is Arya Stark."

She grabbed his right hand and drove her knife through the back until it pierced the palm. He tried to scream.

"My brother was Robb Stark, the King in the North."

She did the same as before, but with his left hand. He was already bleeding heavily.

"My mother was Catelyn Stark, formerly of House Tully. You killed them both."

She used her knife to take off three of the fingers from his right hand. They fell to the floor, into the pool of blood that was forming there.

"I was sent here by Daenerys Targaryen to pass her justice."

She removed the man's left ear. It was easier than she expected. He was whimpering now. He hadn't felt the worst of what she had in store for him.

"I killed your nephews, Black Walder and Arwood Frey."

She drove her knife down through his left foot.

"I gelded Arwood and left him to bleed to death."

His right foot.

"I'm going to geld you, too."

She ripped off his breeches and then tore through his underclothes. His member was shrivelled and hairy. It smelled, too. She was glad that he had not put this inside her. She was glad nobody would ever have to tolerate it again. She removed it with one cut, and allowed it to fall to the floor with the fingers.

"You are not my lord."

She opened his mouth wide, and smashed the hilt over her knife into it, knocking his teeth out, and allowing them to spill out, with blood, as well.

"You are going to die today."

She put the blade of the knife into his mouth and used it to cut out his tongue. That was the toughest thing. She could feel him breathing, but he was slumped now, and the breaths were shallow and stuttered. He was dying. She grabbed him by the hair and lifted his head up so that he could see her. There was fear in his eyes. Had he not accepted that his death was now inevitable? If not then he was more a fool than she thought.

She dragged her knife across his throat, and smiled as the last remnants of life flowed out of him with the blood. He was dead. Justice. Justice. Justice.

"And now winter has come for you, m'lord."

Justice.


	81. Sansa VI

Sansa awoke early that morning. Her tent was separate from her husband's, as he used his for his war councils with his lords and commanders. Also, because she needed her personal space. They still slept together most nights, but he would visit her here, and leave when they had held each other for long enough. She really did love him.

She pulled on the black and red dress that he had got made for her. They were camped here for a few days, nearby to the Kingswood, whilst Rolland Caron and his outriders mapped them a safe journey through the forests. There had been reports of barbarians from the Vale taking up the Kingswood as their new home, and they would not be afraid of attacking Aegon on his travels. They would need all their men alive if they wanted to take King's Landing from Cersei Lannister and her crones.

Sansa had been saddened to hear of the death of Tommen Baratheon. She hadn't known him very well, but he had been a quiet and peaceful boy, who was nothing like Joffrey. He had been drawn into a war that he could never win and died a horrible death. She had felt sorry for him. He deserved better. Aegon would have spared him when he took King's Landing, of course. He was a merciful king. She knew that much about him.

The last thing she pulled on was her long elbow-length gloves, that protected her dainty hands from the biting cold of the morning in the Stormlands. She then sat on her bed and looked at the wall, imagining the heated rooms of Winterfell. What she would give to be there and be out of this horrible southern coldness. Robb would have laughed at her and called her soft Jon would have just watched her, a solemn look in his eyes.

It was strange that Jon and Robb had been so close. Arya was her only trueborn sibling that took the Stark features. The rest of them had taken after the Tullys. Who had been her mother's families. Jon had been a Stark, with a long face and the dark hair, and the solemn eyes. Father had never told her who Jon's mother had been. He had never told anyone. She must have been a Northerner though, as Jon had those Northern features.

"Lady Sansa is asleep. She cannot see you."

That voice came through the fabric of the tent, and Sansa let out a wry smile. It was the latest member of Aegon's Kingsguard, who had taken to helping Bryce Cafferen in looking after her. Brienne Tarth very rarely left Sansa's side.

"Lady Brienne, you may enter!"

It was a few seconds after she called out that Brienne Tarth entered the tent. Even now Sansa couldn't help but find her odd-looking. She was tall for a woman, with a strange face and a flat chest. She had chosen the sword over the wedding ring. Sansa admired that somehow, but still felt that this giant of a lady had made the wrong life choices.

She knelt at first, until Sansa indicated for her to rise. She did not think herself a small woman. People called her tall and slender, but she felt like Lord Tyrion when stood beside the Lady of Tarth.

"Who is at my door, Lady Brienne?"

"Princess Arianne Martell, my Lady. Should I tell her to return when you have truly woken from your sleep?"

She had expected it to be Arianne. The Princess of Dorne woke early most mornings, and came to visit Sansa whenever she could. The two had grown to be fast friends after Arianne had helped her bed Aegon on her wedding night.

"No, Lady Brienne. Allow her in, and then go seek Ser Bryce and have him relieve you. I see you have been awake all night, and a tired guard is of no use to me. You need your sleep."

Brienne grimaced at that, but then gave her a curt nod.

"Very well, my Lady. I shall return in a few hours when I am rested. My place is by your side, not in a bed, where I am useless to you."

"You are useless to me if you are sleeping at your station. Now go. I shall see you soon. Ser Bryce is perfectly capable of looking after me in the middle of a camp of friends and allies."

Brienne nodded again and then rose, opening the tent door to let Arianne in, before then leaving herself. Arianne smiled at Sansa after Brienne was gone.

"You'd do well to keep her in your service, my Lady. She clearly loves you."

"She swore some oath to my mother and has been searching for me ever since I left King's Landing. She is committed. I cannot tell how she truly thinks though. She just does whatever I tell her without truly questioning it."

"The best kind of servant then. A defiant servant is as useless as a sword made of wood. She is a lady of steel and is good with a sword. She should meet Ser Daemon. I am sure that the two of them would get along."

She meant Ser Daemon Sand, her sworn sword, and a bastard. She had met him. He was handsome, though not as much as Aegon, and he was good with a sword, too. She had seen him sparring with Ser Loras. Not many men could last multiple rounds with the Knight of Flowers. He had grown stronger since she had known him in King's Landing, and he had always been fast.

Sansa could tell that Arianne had feelings for the bastard. She was not the same naïve little bird that had gone to King's Landing with father before. She would not be manipulated by Cersei Lannister again. She would not suffer Joffrey's torment. She could see things, and hear things, too, and she heard love in the voice of Arianne Martell whenever she talked about Daemon Sand.

"I received a raven from my father today."

Arianne ran her hand across the bed as she talked. There was a sadness in her voice. She had been given bad news then.

"My brother Quentyn is dead. We never really got along, but he was still my brother. Do you understand?"

Sansa nodded. She thought of her only sister, Arya, and how she missed her, even though they had never gotten along, and, truth be told, were exact opposites. Family was family, when it came down to it. She was probably dead, just like the rest of the family. She regretted all the arguments now, just as she regretted pushing away Jon Snow. She had lived as a bastard in the Vale. She knew what it felt like now. She felt bad for all the times that she had mocked him for not knowing his mother.

"Father wouldn't tell me how it happened, but he is definitely dead. His friends were with him when he died apparently, so at least he got the mercy of being surrounded by people who loved him. I'm not sure father is entirely right, though. He did love Quentyn. He did love all of us. I can see that much now."

Arianne had never had the same connection with Doran Martell that Sansa had had with her own father, and her mother had abandoned their family to return home to the Free Cities. Arianne had told Sansa all that a few nights before. Sansa hadn't minded listening to her friend's thoughts. She found it interesting, and it was all stuff she could use against Arianne, if she ever became an enemy.

"At least you still have your other brother and your uncle's daughters. I have nothing."

Arianne put her hand on Sansa's shoulder.

"War is the same as loss. Everyone loses what they love. Aegon loves you. You have him. He is yours, and nobody else's. Live for him. Protect him, because there are things that only his loving wife can save him from. Your children will sit the Iron Throne, Sansa."

"If I live that long."

She responded with a bitterness in her tone, and stared down at the glove that covered her hand, wrist and forearm. She almost forgot that anything else existed. By the time that she heard Arianne's voice again, she was certain that it had been a few minutes before her response.

"My Lady? Are you alright, my Lady? Is there something wrong?"

Sansa shook her head.

"No. Nothing. Everything is fine. Everything is good."

She rose to her feet.

"I feel like a walk. Do you? I want some fresh air."

The Princess nodded, though Sansa was unsure whether this was a sign of her desire for a walk, or merely her acquiescing to Sansa's will. Either way, she could live with it. Bryce Cafferen turned to them as they left the tent.

"We are going for a stroll. You may follow, but at a distance. You will not be interested in whatever gossip we choose to discuss."

The white knight nodded, as Arianne had done, and they began walking, with Cafferen following some distance behind them. It was still early, but Sansa found the camp was already bustling with activity. Loras Tyrell and Ser Pykewood Peake were training some of the younger men-at-arms how to fight with proper swords. Many of the soldiers picked up in the Stormlands were boys. All the men had gone north with Stannis Baratheon, or had bent the knee to Joffrey after the Battle of the Blackwater.

She also saw the Hand of the King, Lord Jon Connington, talking with Addam Whitehead, who was one of the knights in the Hand's personal retinue. They were talking in hushed whispers, and afterwards Addam walked away as if he had some purpose to fulfil. Sansa then decided she wanted to know what Connington was up to, so she walked over to him.

"Good morning, my Lord."

"And to you, your grace."

His formal words did not mask the gruff tone with which he spoke. He did not like her, for whatever reason she did not know. He didn't like much anyone, though, so she didn't take it too much to heart.

"You were talking with young Ser Addam in very enthusiastic whispers, my Lord. What is it that you were discussing."

Connington scowled. He clearly didn't like being asked.

"News from the outriders. They are tracking the bandits in the eastern part of the Kingswood. We will be safe to travel tomorrow, they say. I was just about to go tell King Aegon if the news, before you interrupted me."

She nodded gracefully.

"Then go, my Lord. I look forward to our impending arrival in King's Landing."

He scowled at that, and then stormed off. She wondered what she had said to upset him. He was a temperamental man, and not one made for politics. Aegon would have to pick a new Hand when he won the war with the Baratheons. Jon Connington was not a good peacetime Hand. Lord Peake would be a candidate, but he was more fool than he was clever. Then there was Rolland Caron, but he was a warrior. Maybe Harry Strickland, who was no fighter. He was good at masking his intentions and keeping secrets.

As she walked with Arianne they passed two knights fighting furiously in training. She stopped to watch them. She recognised Tristan Rivers of the Golden Company, as he had lost his helmet. He had ridden in the day before she married Aegon, for the wedding. He was a tall man, but was more rangy than muscled. He had lost his helmet, and was clearly losing the fight.

The other knight was tall, with blue armour and a mighty sword. He was battering Tristan, until eventually he was forced to the ground. The victor sheathed his sword, and then offered the defeated foe a hand. Tristan took it and nodded.

"You fight well."

The knight removed his helmet, and Sansa was shocked to see Brienne underneath it. How had she not realised that it was her?

"I thank you, Ser. It was a good fight."

"Until the next time. I am glad that we are on the same side in this war, otherwise I would most certainly be dead by now."

Sansa stepped forward, and Tristan sank to his knee, as did Brienne.

"You fought boldly, Ser Tristan, but no man can best Lady Brienne. She is stronger than most men, and quicker and smarter too. I am glad that I saw this, my Lady. Although I believe that I told you to take some rest, not go duel my husband's men."

"I did not want to get out of practice, your grace."

She looked down at the sandy colour of the Lady of Tarth's hair. She had not been blessed with beauty, but she was strong, just like Arya, who they had mocked at Winterfell, but had always dreamed of training with the sword. Brienne had realised that dream.

"I swore an oath to Lady Catelyn to protect you and prevent you from dying. I shall not let her down now."

Her mother did not care about her dying. She had happily sentenced her to die in the Riverlands. She had sentenced her to be hanged for betraying father. She had been wrong. Father had not been clever enough to survive in the capital. He had died the moment that he had decided to leave Winterfell and go south. Robert Baratheon had killed him by asking for him to serve as Hand.

"Do not make promises that you cannot keep, Lady Brienne. All men must die, and women too. Death will come for me one day, and there is nothing you can do to prevent that."

Just then, the sound of horns came from the Northern entrance to the camp. Maybe that was some of Lord Rolland's men returning from their scouting trip, or a messenger from Lord Selwyn Tarth. Either way, she wanted to find out, and so, with Arianne, Bryce, Tristan and Brienne in tow, she headed towards the sound. When there, she found a gathered crowd. It parted as she approached, and she walked through, towards the entrance. When there she found two figures, both of whom she recognised.

The first was a tall knight dressed in battered armour. The shield that he carried bore three blue eyes that seemed to be staring at her. He was joined by a woman, dressed in green robes, and with curling brown hair, and brown, doe-like eyes. She was slender, with a woman's figure. She knew her by sight. This was her old friend.

"Margaery?"

She felt the name on her lips, but it was not her that spoke them. Instead, she saw Loras push through the crowd and embrace his sister, who had tears on her face. What was she doing so far from King's Landing? She was no longer Queen, but surely she would return to Highgarden and not come here.

Sansa then spotted Aegon on the edge of the circle, flanked by Connington and Lonmouth. Harry Strickland had also found himself a place to watch the heart-warming scene.

"Loras, I- Father, he- They are all dead, Loras. Father. Mother. Everyone in King's Landing. She burned it. She burned it to the ground. None of them survived."

Aegon and Connington stepped forward, and Sansa did, too. It was Loras that asked what they were all thinking, however.

"Who did? What happened?"

"Cersei Lannister. She- She was mad. She used wildfire to destroy the city. Everyone inside died. Father was there, and mother too. The Great Sept was destroyed, and the Red Keep is rubble. I survived because Ser Tallad was riding with me outside the city. We were alone. Everyone else- "

Margaery had to choke down her sobs, and Loras held her close. Sansa looked to Aegon, who was sombrely staring at the ground, respecting the sibling's moment together.

"Father told me you were here, so I had Ser Tallad bring me here instead of going home to Highgarden. Grandmother is there, and Willas, too. They are safe, but- "

Loras placed his hand on the back of her head and held her into his body.

"It's alright. I understand. You don't need to say it."

Aegon did eventually step forward, and Loras detached from Margaery. The king was wearing his gloves too, Sansa saw.

"I am deeply sorry for your loss, Lady Margaery, and you too, Ser Loras. Truly, losing a father and a mother is something that you can never get over, even if it happened when you were but a babe."

He turned to the gathered crowds then.

"My father was murdered by the traitor called Robert Baratheon. My mother was killed by the mad dog of House Lannister, Gregor Clegane. They may both be dead, but their people live on. King's Landing was a city populated by innocents and septons and potential allies. I say we bring the Lannisters to their knees, sack their precious Rock, and return the capital to the hands of my house and to the glory that it reached under my family. For those who have perished there, and for those who have lost their lives in this war."

That caused roars of approval from some of the crowd. Sansa spotted Connington, who was silent, and Strickland, who also didn't acknowledge the speech. She turned, and found that Arianne had gone paler than she had ever seen her. Then Sansa realised. Her brother had been in the capital. He was dead. She had lost both of her brothers today. She had lost so much today. She wanted to embrace her friend, but instead she found a hand on her shoulder.

She turned again, and found the large, menacing figure of the man called Chains, for the rusted chains he wore on his chest, and for his preferred weapon, a chain whip. She had always wondered which came first. Now was not the time to ask, she decided.

"Lord Connington requests your presence in the King's tent, your grace."

"Very well. Lady Brienne, you shall escort me. Ser Bryce, take Lady Arianne back to her tent and see that she is safe."

Sansa swept away, to Aegon's tent, with Brienne coming behind her. When she arrived, she found Aegon already there, with Jon Connington, Franklyn Flowers, and the two Tyrells. Margaery was still in tears, and Loras looked despondent as well. She was followed in by Gerald Gower. She noticed that Harry Strickland was curiously absent.

"I thank you all for joining me. We have received news that the city of King's Landing has been destroyed by the tyrant who was Cersei Lannister. We are working under the assumption that this means that Myrcella Baratheon is dead. This means that the capital, or the ruins of it at least, are open for attack. We must take it swiftly, before anyone else can. I will ride there this evening, accompanied by Lord Connington. I have left orders with Harry Strickland to command the bulk of our army whilst I take one hundred loyal men."

Aegon was walking around as he spoke. He turned to Gower first.

"Edric will stay with me. You will be a part of my company, Ser Gerald. I would ask you to ready your swords and have the boy ready to ride as soon as can be done."

Gower nodded, and then left the tent. Aegon turned to Flowers next.

"I will leave you to select the men that come with us, Ser Franklyn. Find the men with the strongest blades and the truest hearts. They must be loyal to my cause. Now is no time for doubting the truth of my heritage."

"As you say, your grace. I shall not fail you."

He strode from the tent, and was soon followed by Ser Loras, who Aegon sent to ready a hundred horses. Connington left shortly afterwards, to get a raven sent to Selwyn Tarth, who was Aegon's High Admiral, and would meet them at King's Landing. That left just Sansa, Aegon and Margaery, with Brienne and Hugo Bolling standing guard outside.

"I am sorry to hear of your father, Margaery. He was not a bad man."

"No. He was not. He spoke to me of the dragon in the Stormlands, and how he intended to switch sides and support to him. That was why he sent Loras to you. He was just the first Tyrell to join your cause. My brother is Lord of Highgarden now. We can be allies."

That irritated Sansa. She had offered her condolences to Margaery, as she also knew what it was like to lose a mother and a father, and to face death in her stony face. She had brushed her off, and turned her attention straight to Aegon. She was still playing this game, even after everything she had seen. After everything that she had been through.

"He never told me how young and handsome you were, your grace."

Margaery was on her feet now, and she moved to caress Aegon's cheek. Sansa was pleased to see her husband shirk away from the touch.

"I am already a married man, Lady Margaery. I am no Baratheon usurper. When I make my matrimonial oaths, I mean them. I have one love, and she is here in this tent."

Sansa saw Margaery's eyes flit over to her, and then back to Aegon.

"You cannot tell me that you would rather have her than me? She has no powerful relatives. She barely knows politics. She gets played by everyone. My grandmother thought her a dumb girl. Her father- "

"Your grandmother is an old bitch."

Sansa flushed slightly at her outburst, but she could not back down now. Not after Margaery, who she had thought to be her friend, had tried to seduce Aegon, who she must know was Sansa's husband.

"And my father was a good man. An honest man. Maybe that is a lesson that you could learn from. Your life is more lie than it is truth. You said that you loved Joffrey, and no sooner was he dead than you seduced his own brother. Everything you do is a game, Margaery. That is your life. Its just a game of lies."

Margaery was staring at her then, a condescending look in her eyes.

"That is why your father is dead, and your mother, too. And its why your grandmother and brothers will follow them. Your ambition drives your family, but there is no base to it. No substance to it, and it will all collapse on top of you."

"Are you quite done, child? Let the adults talk."

Margaery turned to Aegon, who had a sombre look on her face. Had she overstepped a boundary with her outburst. Was he not proud of her for the way that she had opened up against her demons? She had thought Margaery her friend, but now she saw that she was no better than Cersei. They were both women turned into these twisted monsters by the hideous game of thrones that they were made to play. Who made the monster?

And then she had her gloved hand on Margaery's shoulder, and was throwing her to the floor. She stood over her, and saw her as the little girl that she was. How had she ever idolised her? She had seemed so mature in King's Landing, with her cousins and her entourage. Well, they were all dead.

"This war camp is no place for you, Lady Tyrell. I would suggest that you and your sellsword find a horse each and ride for Highgarden tonight, or I will have to fetch Lady Brienne, and have her physically escort you away from my husband."

Margaery backed away on the ground, and then pulled herself to her feet, before running out of the tent, a broken girl with tears in her eyes.

Sansa turned to her husband who was there to embrace her, and then kiss her. It was tender and loving. He was proud of her. How could she ever lose him? He was hers. He was perfect.

"Did you touch her skin?"

She shook her head, tears in her own eyes now. He peeled away his own gloves, and then removed hers. They clutched their hands together, and she cried looking down at the scales of stone that they both shared. The infectious disease spreading through them. It was coming. Not even Brienne could save her from this. It was not the hands that she saw when she looked down at their embrace.

It was the stony face of Lady Death, calling for Sansa's own death sentence, and she looked like Sansa's mother.


	82. Daenerys V

She was awoken by the knock of a hand on her wooden door. She was home, on Dragonstone, but there were no red doors here. Those were in Braavos, where she had been raised. This was a strange place still. She was not wholly used to it. She was also not used to waking up without Rogero beside her. She had not slept with a man since he left, though she had been tempted by Daario more than once, and she knew that he was ready for it. He was not the same as Rogero, though. She had a connection with the Andal Khal. Maybe she loved him, or maybe he just reminded her of Drogo, her sun and stars. What was love in this world?

Had she loved Drogo, or had she just not truly understood what that word had meant when she had been with him. She had been a young girl, and it seemed like twenty and one years had passed since she had last felt his touch, though it had been only three. So much had occurred. She had visited Qarth and Astapor, and sacked the latter. She had taken Meereen and been taken by the Dothraki. Then Rogero had saved her, and she had ruined Qohor, and brought Norvos and Pentos to their knees. She had achieved so much, and now she was home.

Had she achieved love, though? Viserys was her brother, but he had never loved her truly. Had Willem Darry loved her? Probably not. Protecting her and Viserys had caused his exile from his home and his family. Maybe Drogo had loved her, but she did not know. Daario certainly hadn't, and Ser Jorah only lusted after her because she reminded him of his wife, who had become a whore. Did Rogero love her? Were the feelings that she felt for him love?

The people of Meereen had loved her, but they had seen her as something that she was not. She had been their liberator, but she had failed them, and had now abandoned most of them to be slaughtered. Was that price worth their brief exposure to freedom? Was it better to die free than live as a slave? She would rather die as Daenerys Targaryen than live on as some nameless nobody serving lesser people.

Right now, however, she was distracted from her thoughts by the sound of knocking at the door. She had thought that it would just be Irri here to wake her, but her handmaidens would never be this impatient. Besides, the strength of the knock suggested that it was a man. Maybe Daario had got too drunk and was here to take her. Would she like that? Should she dress herself for him?

The knocking grew more incensed now, and she decided to just answer it how she was. It would make it easier for him when she took him into her bed.

She answered the door, and blushed. It was not Daario, but Grand Maester Marwyn, who made no attempt to look away from her nakedness. She tried to cover herself, and then pulled on a shawl. The old man had taken his fill of her body, though, she had no doubt. It was already too late to preserve herself from the darker reaches of his mind.

"I have news from the Twins, your grace. Lothar Frey is dead, and Jason Mallister and Perwyn Frey have agreed to ride to Riverrun to bring the terms of surrender to Edmure Tully on your behalf. The Stark girl has succeeded."

That was good news indeed. If she could secure the backing of the Riverlands then she would have control over the centre of Westeros. Most of the Lannister army was at King's Landing, so the West would be virtually powerless once she won there. That would leave only the troublesome armies of the Reach, as well as her nephew, who held Storm's End. She could deal with the Vale and the Iron Islands afterwards, and then she would turn her attention on the Prince of Dorne.

"What of Highgarden, Grand Maester? Do you have any raven from Ser Humfrey or House Tyrell."

The Grand Maester shuffled on his feet.

"I do regret that I do not, your grace. It is my belief that Ser Humfrey will be arriving at Highgarden any day now. He should send us a raven when he does. There was also a raven from Rogero, however, who says that the men of Crackclaw Point will support you, under the banners of the Brune's and the Bogg's, both of whom supported your brother at the Trident."

"How many men can they provide?"

"Between them? Maybe a thousand. Crackclaw Point is underpopulated, your grace. It is mostly marsh and woodland."

It was unlikely that those thousand men would do her much good in the wars to come. They would not be soldiers mostly, and would be green boys and old men. Maybe some of them would have fought alongside Rhaegar.

"Send ravens to these houses that have offered me their support. Thank them from me, Grand Maester. Remind them that they shall be rewarded when the Lannisters and the Baratheons are dead, and when the dragon sits on the Iron Throne once again, as it should be."

The old man nodded, and went to leave, but she stopped him.

"What of the other project we discussed? How is that coming along?"

He shook his head.

"I have had the armour prepared for Drogon. I do not know the other dragons well enough to have taken their measurements completely, or for them to be comfortable in my presence. I would suggest leaving them behind here, and only riding Drogon into battle."

Rhaegal and Viserion had both grown since she had last seen them. Captivity had not suited them, but Ser Barristan had done well to keep them out in the open and to allow them to grow. He had told her that one of them had killed the boy suitor, Quentyn Martell. The boy had been a fool for thinking that he could tame a dragon, but she was not happy to hear of his death. It just meant there was more blood to be settled between her and the Prince of Dorne, who had been Quentyn's father.

"Go find Andrey Dalt and have him oversee the attaching of the armour. We must be ready to sail for King's Landing by the afternoon. Have Lord Aurane prepare half of the ships to join me and support me."

"As you say, your grace."

The Grand Maester bowed his head to her, and slipped out of the room. She sighed. There was something off-putting about the man. She walked over to the balcony and looked out over the Dragonstone. It was a rocky crag. The castle sat upon it, covered in ornate dragon statues, carved in the rock itself. It didn't cover the whole of the island, but it was the only thing worth seeing. It was the heartland of the Targaryen dynasty, and the home that she had never known. She had looked. There were no red doors here. This was not her home.

"I am here to see you, your grace The most beautiful of all the women in this wide, wide world. No ocean or army could keep me from you."

She recognised the sweet nothings that were being spoken, and knew who the new presence in her chambers was. She turned, and sure enough she found Daario Naharis in the door, with his blue, pronged beard and a startling yellow jacket. He was so suave. Only he could look as handsome as he did in these clothes. They would work for no other man, and yet they worked for him.

"When should I take up my lordship, your grace. It was promised to me, after all."

"Rosby is still held by the ward of the last lord Rosby. Rogero visited there, and he was turned away. I will have to visit there on dragonback after the defeat of the Lannister armies at King's Landing. I am sure they will be less bold when they see Drogon flying above them then."

Daario took a step closer to her, and then another, until he was close enough that she could feel him pressed up against her, and could feel the line of his body. He was strong, handsome, and knew how to kill. It was one of the few things that he did know.

"I should admit, I did not come to your chambers to discuss promised lordships and the like. I came in the hope that you would still be asleep, and that you might let me slip in with you."

"And why would I do that? You're just a mere sellsword. You're too lowly for a queen. I must marry some high lord, like Willas Tyrell."

Daario scoffed, and put his forehead to hers.

"It is not marriage that I am suggesting, and you know it. No queen is too high to be pleasured by a man who knows how to do it."

She could feel Daario's fingers creeping up her legs, and towards her pleasure hole. They were nimble and quick, and knew what they were doing. He was experienced and willing. She did not care if he did not love her and Rogero did. Rogero was not here, and she needed to be satisfied. She gave herself over to Daario, expecting his fingers inside her, and then she heard it, a cough, from the door.

They broke apart, and she turned to find the dwarf that Ser Barristan had brought with him. The one who called himself Tyrion Lannister, the scholar, and the former Hand of the King to the Usurper's child. She wasn't sure if he could be trusted, but he had proved himself in Slaver's Bay, apparently, by securing the required ships.

"I am sorry if I am interrupting something, your Grace. We have just received another raven on the morning winds. It comes from Sunspear. From Dorne."

Naharis moved to the dwarf, and gestured towards him.

"And this news could not wait? We were in the middle of important negotiations!"

"So that is what you call it, Naharis. It looked a lot to me like you were attempting to bring your queen to climax, and failing."

She thought that Daario might draw his knife and kill the dwarf there and then. She must admit, she did not appreciate the manner of his speech. She was no common whore, and someone such as Tyrion Lannister should not think himself to have the right to talk about her in such a sexual manner.

"What is the news from Dorne then, Lord Lannister?"

She had heard some of her men call the dwarf Little Lord Lannister, though she did not approve. People should know their place in life, and that did not involve smallfolk mocking their superiors and betters in that sort of manner.

"Doran Martell wishes to offer you his support, your grace. He is sending you five ships with men from Houses Ladybright, Dalt, Santagar, and Allyrion. He claims they will arrive within the week."

"What has prompted this sudden change of heart, I wonder."

She walked to the balcony and looked out over the rippling sea. Some Dornish ships would be travelling to her across it at this very minute.

"You should not trust them, Daenerys. They could be assassins sent by the trickster Dornishman. He sent that boy to you disguised as a sellsword, and he intended to steal your dragons. Kill these men and send their heads back to Sunspear."

That was Daario. Of course it was Daario. He was rash, and unwise and bloodthirsty.

"May I suggest a less violent alternative, your grace?"

She turned to Tyrion Lannister and nodded for him to go on.

"You will be away from Dragonstone when these men arrive. Leave a small garrison of the aged Dothraki behind and serving under some sort of castellan who can handle these sorts of issues. Not Naharis. Let them get to the bottom of what game Doran Martell is playing."

"I suppose that you believe that you are the man for the job, Imp? You have yet to prove to my Queen why exactly she should trust a Lannister, when it is Lannisters that she is fighting."

"With all due respect, Lord Daario, I will allow our Queen to decide on who she should trust. Who would have thought a common sellsword such as yourself would have got as close to her as you have."

There was a pointed nature in the way that Tyrion Lannister spoke. It was almost as if each word he used had been carefully chosen, though surely that was not the case. This hideous, noseless man was smarter than he was pretty to look upon. Daario was right here, though. She had not decided how much trust and power she wanted to bestow on the Lannisters in her service. She had not imprisoned them. They should see that as reward enough, and yet they showed this ambition.

"A Lannister served as Hand of the King to my father, Imp. He betrayed him to the Usurper. My brother thought him as much a traitor as Ned Stark or Jon Arryn. Why should I spare his family from death? He did not spare mine."

"And I killed my father for his crimes, whether towards me, or your family, or just Westeros in general. He was callous and cruel. He gave the order for your nephew and niece to be killed, and he was likely involved in the murder of my nephew, too, before then pinning the blame on me. Tywin Lannister is dead. He died on the privy with crossbow bolts inside him. I gave him what he deserved."

She turned away from the little lion. It was true. The great Tywin Lannister had been shamed in death. Killed by his dwarf son whilst relieving himself. Would that fact outweigh his legacy? She hoped so.

"It does not matter who killed Tywin Lannister. You did that for yourself, not for me. How have you proved your loyalty to me? Why should I name you castellan of my family keep?"

"Without me half your army would either be stuck in Slaver's Bay or dead. I delivered the Corsair King and his ships. I delivered Ben Plumm in to captivity and the Second Sons to your army. How else could I have proved myself?"

He put up a stern defence. That caused her to smile. This man was cleverer than any she had met on her journey. Ser Jorah and Ser Barristan had their brains in their swords, Daario had his in his cock, and Illyrio had his in his stomach. Marwyn was clever, but gruff. He did not exude the same level of political expertise as Tyrion Lannister.

"Very well, Lannister. I will leave you with Motho and his khalasar. They are old, and would do little good for me in a battle. Discover what Doran Martell intends and find out whether or not he can be trusted. The Martells defied my family before, but they were allies of my brother, and we should bring them back into the fold. If he refuses then he burns. Those are his choices. Aegon the Conqueror was too merciful to them after they captured his sister."

Tyrion nodded, and Daario scowled. She then dismissed the two of them, and finally Irri and Jhiqui came in, to properly dress her. The two girls had relayed the news of the death of Missandei to her a few days before, which had saddened her. The girl had been clever, and had a strong future ahead of her. Still, she was one young girl. She would not have changed the tide too much.

Irri was happy that morning, for she had shared a kiss with Rakharo the night before, and the two girls had been competing for his affections. There had been a time that she may have cared about their squabbles, but it was not today. She had risen above them now.

They did not dress her in the dresses and robes that they had before, but in close-fitting, Dothraki riding gear. Dresses would not suit her where she was going, These would be far more comfortable. Soon she was ready, and she left the two girls behind, bickering about whether Rakharo intended to marry Irri.

She headed for the room of the Painted Table. This was her favourite place in all of Dragonstone. This had been where Aegon the Conqueror had planned his invasion with his sister-wives. She ran her hand along the surface. Tracing the letters that spelled out the names of places in the Crownlands. Duskendale. Rosby. Stokeworth. They had all bent the knee to Aegon when he flew his dragons to them.

Suddenly she felt heat on her back, and the drafty rooms of Dragonstone were replaced by open air and mountains. There was red sand beneath her feet, and red rocks around her. She was in a narrow valley. She could hear the sound of running water somewhere nearby. Then the sound of men talking.

"I was sent here to protect them. I cannot hand them over to you. Your Usurper friend will kill them, Stark."

Stark? Where was she? Usurper friend? Robert Baratheon?

"And I am here to protect them, also. They cannot stay here. Robert already considers sending troops to Dorne to quell the Red Viper's attempted rebellion. They are not safe here."

"I will not disobey my king."

She turned the corner to find the source of the sound. There were three men stood together, with an attractive woman with them. The woman and two of the men were standing opposite the other man, who had his arms crossed. She could see his face, and she recognised him.

"Ser Willem?"

The man stood opposite Ser Willem Darry spoke next. It was the same man she had heard before. The one that Willem had called Stark. Could that be Ned Stark, the Usurper's best friend? That was impossible. These two men were both dead, and Ser Willem looked younger than he had when she had known him.

"Your king is dead. Prince Rhaegar is dead. Neither you or I can protect the Prince and Princess alone. We need to work together. I can help you get Daenerys and Viserys to the Free Cities."

Ser Willem did not respond, but he was clearly not going to move. Had Lord Stark just mentioned her name, and Viserys too? She had never visited Dorne. Willem Darry had spirited her and her brother away to Braavos when the war was lost. What sort of vision was this? One that lied to her?

It was the woman that stepped forward then. Even from this distance, Daenerys could make out her purple eyes. They were enchanting.

"Ser Willem, you are a good man, and you have the respect of my brother for your loyalty. He is at Starfall, caring for the other Targaryen survivors. They will be shipped across the Narrow Sea to safety, and when Robert Baratheon dies and his heir succeeds, they will be allowed to return in safety. That is a better deal than them staying here, always at risk of discovery and death."

The woman's words were sweet, and even Daenerys felt swayed by them. Eventually Ser Willem stood to the side, and the two men swept past. Stark had a long face, and his companion was short and slender, dressed in murky greens and browns.

They turned another corner, and beyond there was a small tower, almost ruined, with lemon trees growing from the ruins, and a bright red door staring at her. Home. This was home. She knew it. The red door. Had it not been in Braavos?

"Ser Willem! Ser Willem!"

She turned at the sound of the voice. It was a boy, slender, and young, maybe eight or nine years of age, but no more than that. He was running towards the group as fast as he could. Out of the tower stepped a woman, who held a babe in her arms. She was a slender woman, with brown hair. She stepped further out, and greeted Ser Willem with a furtive look.

"They are friends, sister. They do not wish harm on the children, but to send them away across the Narrow Sea, where they will be safe."

The woman did not speak, but she curtsied, all whilst holding the child. Ser Willem knelt down, and put a hand on the boy's shoulder.

"You hear that, Viserys? You and your sister will be safe, until the day that you may be able to return."

"But I like it here. Westeros is belong. I should be king. A king does not run."

The small man knelt down, too, and looked into the young eyes of Viserys, her brother. He looked so weak, but even this young he had held ideas of rule and kingship that he would never fulfil.

"He cannot remember being here. He must not."

Willem Darry looked at the ground, and then stood and walked away.

"Then do your magic, crannogman. Make him forget."

The little man moved his hands, and then placed them on either side of her brother's head. Viserys let out a whimper, and Daenerys could feel what he was going through happening inside her own mind. He was violating him. He was taking control, and choosing what Viserys should be allowed to remember. This was monstrous. This was maddening.

"Stop! Stop!"

She called out, and then the crannogman did stop, and he turned, and looked to her, as if he had heard her call out. His searching lookwas interrupted by Lord Stark.

"What about the girl, Howland?"

"She- She is too young. She will not remember any of this anyway."

Then the vision crumbled, and she was back in the chamber of the Painted Table. She was on the floor, and when she looked up, she found Aurane Waters looking down on her. She did not want him to think her weak or crippled, and so she refused the hand that he offered her, pulling herself to her feet.

"The ships are stocked and ready, your grace. We can sail whenever you desire."

She must put the ghosts that she had just seen behind her. It was just another vision of the red door, filled with people she half knew, and Ser Willem Darry, who she missed. She could still feel that Crannogman in her mind, though, and knew what that must have done to her brother.

"Then we will sail now. My dragon is ready, and so are our ships."

She swept from the room, followed by Aurane, and down to the beach, which was near deserted. All she had to do was call Drogon with her mind now, and he came to her. He landed on the beach, and Aurane shied away from him, even though Drogon meant him no harm. Well, very little harm. She pulled herself onto the back of her steed, her child, and then Drogon pushed off into the air. She soared over the ships. Some flew the seahorse of Velaryon, others the golden kraken of Greyjoy, or the roaring lion of Lannister, but they all flew the dragon of Targaryen. She turned Drogon then, and sent him towards land, towards Westeros, towards her throne.


	83. Patrek VIII

Patrek's head was still spinning when the darkness eventually stopped, and he woke up. It hurt, as if he had been hit hard over the back of the head with some sort of blunt object. He was still dressed in the clothes that he had been wearing when he had been attacked. He couldn't remember if this was the first time that he had been awake since then. He couldn't remember a lot of things, actually. Had he seen his attacker? Had it been Jonos Bracken, or one of his men?

"One of the prisoners is awake. What should we do with him?"

Patrek looked up, and saw two men watching over him. He recognised one, but he wasn't sure where from. The other was a pasty man who wore a bandage over one of his eyes. He had the look of a rat. It was him that had spoken, Patrek was fairly sure.

"Mayhaps I should sing him back to sleep. Lord Tully would like that I think, were it not for the fact that he has yet to recover from the knock to the back of the head."

"What is this? Who are you? Where are we?"

The second man to speak looked shocked, and put his hand to his chest.

"Do you not remember me? I am Tom of the Sevenstrings, the finest harpist and singer that the Riverlands has ever produced. My friend is Jack-be-Lucky. We are members of the Brotherhood without Banners."

"Outlaws?"

Tom laughed at that.

"That is what the lions and the wolves called us, but our lord was sent on his mission by the Hand of the King, in the name of Robert Baratheon. We serve the king and defend the poor against the war that his death has caused."

Jack grunted his approval, and then picked up the speech.

"The false knight Gregor Clegane tried to capture us, and he failed. Our lord took his final death to bring our new lady back from her unjust death. Now we are committed to seeking those who brought blood and shame upon the Riverlands and bringing them to justice."

They were righteous fools. What did they mean that their lady had been restored to life after dying. Were they such fools as to think that death was a game that could be reversed? Death was the end. There was no return after it had come for you. That was not possible.

His eyes had adjusted more to the darkness by then. He looked around what he now realised was a wagon, and realised that six other people had been attacked and taken. He recognised Lords Clement Piper and Jonos Bracken, and then there was Marq Piper and Hugo Vance laid out on the floor. Edmure was slumped against the wall of the wagon. How had they got him? He would never allow a singer into his tent, and he would surely have been under guard. There was somebody missing, though.

"Where is Jeyne? What did you do with her?"

"She is in the second wagon."

Tom responded.

"The wolf's widow. We left her to be looked after by Meg of the Swamps. She is a woman as well, though Meg is no lady."

"Is she safe?"

Tom looked away when Patrek asked that. Why was he trying to avoid his eyes? What did that say? Was she unsafe? He turned to Jack-be-Lucky. He seemed coarser, and more likely to answer his question.

"None of you are safe, Mallister. You all betrayed your king and bent the knee to the treacherous House Frey. You will find judgement at the hands of Mother Merciless, as will the Lannister queen. Her mother plotted to betray Robb Stark. She will be punished for it.

"No. No. Jeyne didn't know. She was drugged. She was fed potions by her mother and uncle. Edmure hanged her mother, and I executed the uncle. Justice has been served. Justice- "

He felt the boot buried deep into his chest, and looked up to see that Jack had buried it deep into him. He was winded for a few seconds, and struggled to breathe. When his breaths did eventually return he thanked the gods.

"It is up to our lady to decide whether or not proper justice has been meted out. You do not get a say. You bent the knee to Black Walder Frey, as did your father. You are as much a traitor as the false king who made a deal with the Kingslayer."

Jack's eyes turned on Edmure. Patrek followed them. How could they blame Edmure for that? Had he not proved his hatred for the Lannisters when he ordered the Rock to be sacked? Had he not shown himself to be a good man when he tried to protect the people of the Riverlands from the armies of Tywin Lannister?

Did they blame the Riverlands for bending the knee to the Lannisters, when those same people had joined forces to bring the Lannisters to their knees in their own kingdom? They had been the first to take the Rock. They had executed those who aided in the Red Wedding. How had they not done their part in the dispensing of justice?

"You are both twisted by things that you cannot possibly know. Edmure fought for his people. He fought for them and for you. He wanted to protect you. He wanted to protect everyone, and to gain revenge for the crimes of our mutual enemies. He killed himself inside over and over again because of what happened to him, and to his nephew. How could you know that, though? You would kill him for your assumptions of what he thought?"

He saw the two men exchange a look. The singer bit his lip, but the other man gritted his teeth.

"You betrayed your king and your people. You will be judged for it. The truth will be found, and you will suffer if you must. Justice works two ways, Mallister. Now go back to sleep."

Jack struck him hard, and the world went black again, as it had done before. The next time he opened his eyes he found himself being carried from the wagon by Tom and Jack. He saw that Clement and Marq Piper had already been brought out, and both were now conscious and knelt down on the ground. He was forced to his knees alongside Marq Piper, who refused to meet his eyes.

"Where are we?"

He looked around, and saw that they were in some sort of thicket of trees. They were dead or dying, with thick trunks and thorns growing between them. Each of them pointed to the sky, as if they were crone's fingers cursing the gods. The snow had been moved from the ground, though it was still cold and wet on Patrek's knees. There were things hanged from the trees, though they were covered by sacks. Several other men moved between the trees, dressed in blacks and browns, as if they were ghosts haunting this dark spot.

Then Hugo Vance was brought out and thrown to the floor. Vance had been part of Jaime Lannister's army in the Riverlands, Patrek remembered. He had been one of the knights that had assisted in the murder of Ser Daven Lannister. Was he here for bending the knee, too?

Others came from other wagons. There was Tytos Blackwood, bound and gagged, as if he had caused some sort of problem on the journey here, and Jonos Bracken, who was knelt alongside his oldest enemy. Then came young Lord Lymond Goodbrook, followed by Richard Roote and Karyl Vance. They must have been in a different wagon to Patrek. How many of the Riverlands commanders had these brigands been able to capture? He did not spot Gerion Chambers or Theomar Smallwood here. Had they not been deemed treacherous enough? He also noted that the Blackfish was absent. Why was that?

Edmure was the last to be brought out. He was brought beyond the rest of his lords and knights, who made a semi-circle around him. Edmure was at the centre, and Jack-be-Lucky stood before him. He put his foot on Edmure's head, and forced him to look down. He then started to pace up and down. Up and down, and then started to talk.

"You have all been brought here due to your betrayal of the king that you crowned. Robb Stark was a boy, and you betrayed him. Some of you lost family at the Red Wedding, and yet you did not continue the fight against House Frey. Instead you bent the knee to them, for your own survival. You ignored the blood that was spilled by your enemy. We did not. We killed Ser Ryman Frey, and Petyr Frey, and Merrett Frey. We killed Steffon and Bryan Frey. We killed Maegelle Frey. These people watched on and allowed the murder and plotting of Walder Frey, curse his name, as all of you did also. We will judge each of you, as we have judged these traitors."

Jack nodded, and turned to the men in the forest. They stepped forwards and removed from the sacks from the hanged things. Patrek recoiled at what he saw. Bodies. Not strangers, but people he recognised. He saw blind, old Norbert Vance, and his son, Jon, who had been a maester. There was Theomar Smallwood, hanged alongside Gerion Chambers, two men so different but so close to each other. They were now close in death, as they had been hanged beside each other.

Patrek almost shouted out at the sight of the next body. It was his friend, who had accompanied him on his travels and his journey. They had hanged Olyvar, who had been a friend to him and to Robb. The life had gone from his face, and his mouth was open, in a desperate attempt for a final breath. The sight was sickening.

"No! No!"

That was Edmure. Who was he looking at? Patrek followed his vision, and was almost sick at what he saw. Hanged in the middle of the dead was a woman. She wore purple and silver, the colours of House Tully, and was fair. Hanged beside her was a baby boy, still in his swaddling clothes. He recognised the woman. She was Edmure's bride, Roslin Frey. The babe beside her must be the child of their union.

"You- You monsters! How could- How could she- I'll have you all dead. I'll have your heads on spikes and your bodies fed to the crows. I'll have your families eating your flesh!"

Jack laughed, and kicked Edmure to the floor, which elicited laughter from the others. How could they laugh at a time like this? Patrek locked eyes with Tom, the singer, and saw that the man wore a solemn look on his face. He did not approve of this, at least.

"They were each deemed to be traitors. They bent their knees to the Freys or the Lannisters, and were involved in the violent betrayal of Robb Stark. They each deserved their fate. That was the decision of our mistress."

"If your mistress is callous enough to hang a babe that has committed no crime- "

That was Jonos Bracken, but he was interrupted in his rant by Jack.

"The babe was half Frey. That is a crime in itself. The Frey line must be wiped out. That is the will of our mistress."

Jonos bristled at the interruption, but it was Lord Blackwood that spoke next.

"And who would your mistress be, pray tell?"

A black shadow entered the clearing then. Patrek couldn't make out the face, but it brought with it a darkness and a cold. It radiated death. What could this be? What foul sorcery was responsible for these hideous murders?

"Mother Merciless herself. The leader of the Brotherhood without banners. The one chosen by the red god. She was thrown into the Trident, and was reborn with the kiss of R'hllor."

The shadowy figure stepped forward. For everything that Jack said, there was one more step forward. Eventually it was stood beside Jack. Then its arms moved up, and pulled the veil back, and the nobles gathered there all recoiled. Patrek was nearly sick.

It was a woman, or at least it looked like one. Her skin was the colour of milk, and was ripped and shredded beneath the eye sockets. The hair was long, but brittle and had lost all of it's colour. There was a deep slash in the throat, and when the disgusting thing opened her mouth, all that came out was the sound of gargling and the smell of decay.

The hands moved to the slit in the throat, and her noises became more like actual speech, though Patrek could still not understand what the hag was saying.

"I am glad to see so many familiar yet treacherous faces before me."

That was Jack-be-Lucky. Was he translating what the woman said? How could he understand her guttural style of speech, or had this all been rehearsed before they got here?

"I am glad to see my dear brother here, even though he has betrayed and brought shame upon his family. He will pay for that, but it will not make me happy to make it so."

Edmure looked up at the woman, and his eyes opened wide.

"Cat? Cat is that you? What happened to you? How are you here."

Tom of Sevenstrings stepped forward.

"Our Lady was resurrected by the kiss of the Red God. She was chosen to do his will on this earth, and his will was for us to kill as many Freys and traitors as we could find. He wants revenge for the blood spilled at the Twins. He wants those wrongs to be righted. Why should we argue with that?"

Jonos Bracken spat on the ground, and Patrek grabbed at Tom's sleeve. The singer knelt down so that he could whisper something into the man's ear.

"Who are you trying to convince, Tom? You know that Edmure is no traitor. You know that killing a babe and a new mother is wrong. Why do you do these things?"

Tom pulled away, and stared into Patrek's eyes. He saw fear in them. Was that what was keeping Tom here? Was he worried that they would come after him if he tried to leave?

Tom rose then, and walked back to his place. Jack scowled at him. Had he heard what was being said?

"Let us try the first guilty man. Step forward Lord Jonos Bracken."

Jonos didn't get the chance to step forward. Two of the Brotherhood men appeared behind him and dragged him forwards. He was thrown down in front of the dark woman, that Edmure had revealed to be Catelyn Tully, malformed from her death and her stay in the Trident.

"Jonos was one of the first Lords of the Riverlands top bend the knee to the Iron Throne. He laid siege to Raventree Hall on the whims of Tommen Baratheon, the traitor child. It has already decided that he is guilty of treason, and so he will hang."

Jack stepped to the side, and revealed an empty noose. The whimpering Jonos had his neck put through it. Patrek looked away as the seat beneath him was kicked away, and Jonos had his breath robbed from him by the cruel bite of the rope's embrace. He looked eventually, and saw the lord hanging, and yet again was almost sick. He had not liked Bracken, but he had not done anything to deserve this fate.

Hugo Vance and Richard Roote were called forward after him, and both died at the hands of the rope. Catelyn Tully truly was merciless. Roote was not an old man, but Vance was only in his early twenties. He cried as he was pulled forward and hanged alongside his youngest brother and their father.

"Edmure Tully."

The name rang out through the silence as Jack-be-Lucky called it out. Was she really going to sentence her brother to die? What crime had he committed?

Edmure looked up at the reanimated corpse of his sister with hatred in his eyes.

"You are a monster, Cat. Everything that was good in you has died. You call this revenge? Robb died. None of us wanted it. You lost your husband and your son, and your way of dealing with it is to take away my son and my wife? You're a monster, whether you are truly Cat or not. It does not matter."

The brittle body of the merciless mother stood still and silent for a few seconds. She then turned to Jack and gargled something. Had she pardoned her brother? Had she heard what he had said. Every one of the gathered nobles took an intake of breath, as they awaited to hear the verdict.

"Hang him."

Patrek breathed out and looked down. No. No. If she would hang Edmure then there was no hope for any of them. They were all doomed to the rope. They were doomed.

He looked up. He would watch it happen. He would watch his friend die, if that was how it had to be. He owed Edmure that. He watched as the man who would take him to the rope stepped forward. He was tall, and his face was concealed with a hood. Were these men such cowards that they did not want to show their face as they sentenced people to death?

And then the sword was drawn, and stuck between the ribcage of the reanimated murderer. She looked down at it, and collapsed forward as it was withdrawn. The hood of her assailant had fallen back, revealing the matted hair and grizzled face of Brynden Tully. His face was wet from tears. Patrek could see that from here. Jack called out, but was silenced quickly by the Blackfish. He saw Edmure pick up Jack's sword and rush to aid his uncle, but he would not stay to watch. He dived backwards, and ran towards the wagons. He had seen where the others had been brought from, so he knew which of the three wagons Jeyne would be in.

"Stop."

He did. He was unarmed. Would he survive the rope just to die here? Was that his fate?

He turned, and saw Tom of Sevenstrings before him. The man had drawn his sword. The fear had gone from his eyes.

"You tried to save me, Mallister, even though I knocked you unconscious. Will you save me now? Edmure will not spare me. You might. Protect me."

"Help me save her, Tom. Where is she?"

Tom nodded, and pushed past Patrek. He entered the wagon. Patrek heard the voice of a woman inside. Then it was ended, and out of the wagon came Tom, and then Jeyne, who was crying. He rushed forward and embraced her. The two shared their moment. He caught Tom's eyes, and nodded to him. The man bowed his head, a slight smile on his face, before slinking away, to hide.

"They were going to kill me, Patrek. They thought I betrayed Robb. They thought I gave him over to the Lannisters. They thought I never loved him."

"Did you? Love him, I mean."

She sighed.

"I don't know. I think so, but it is hard to remember. It seems like yesterday, but also seems like so many years ago. So much has happened since the last time I saw him. Do you get more than one love in your life?"

"I don't know. Why?"

"Because I think I love you. That's why they thought I betrayed Robb. Because I had found someone so soon after him."

He let her go, and looked into her eyes.

"I'm glad that you're not dead."

She looked unsure at that. Was she expecting a but?

"I love you too."


	84. The Wild Girl

Arya Stark woke from her slumber in the early hours of the morning. Lord Mallister was not yet awake. The army did not have enough tents, so the commander had offered his own personal tent for her to sleep in, though they did not sleep together. Lord Jason was widowed, but he was old, and Arya had little interest in such a man. She had little interest in any man, to be perfectly honest. She had never desired to grow up and get married, as Sansa had, but to live in the wild, with a sword at her belt. That was her dream.

They were two days ride from Riverrun, where she would meet her mother's brother, Lord Edmure. They had met before, but a long time ago, in what seemed like a different life. She had been Arya Stark properly then, and her father and brothers had still been alive. Now she was alone, and the lone wolf was little use when the cold winter winds came. She had found a new pack, though. One where she was protected by a strong queen, who was willing to do anything for revenge. She had dragons, too, of course, and that always helped when the cold winter winds started to blow.

The lone wolf dies but the pack survives. That had been what her father told her. He had been right. Robb had been alone, and he died, and Sansa too, probably. Bran and Rickon had been together, but they were little boys, and had been too weak to defy death when it came for them, at the hands of Theon Greyjoy, who had been Robb's friend.

Then there was Jon. There was always Jon. He had gone to the Wall with Uncle Benjen, but she had not heard of him since. The man of the Watch she had met in Braavos had told her that he had become Lord Commander, but the Wall was a long way away. Maybe he would help Daenerys when she eventually went north to reclaim the North for the Starks, and assist in the killing of House Bolton.

Arya left the tent then, and looked at the small camp. Lord Mallister had left most of his men at the Twins, with Perwyn Frey, who was the new Lord, after Lothar Frey was found murdered on his throne. The castle had submitted soon enough. Amerei Frey had abandoned Darry for her new husband, and the castle had been given to Bradamar Frey, who the Iron Bank had proposed to be Lord of the Twins, to placate them. Amerei had sent some of her knights south with Jason, making up part of his fifty-troop party.

She wandered silently through the small camp. Some of the knights and men-at-arms were already awake and getting ready for the new day. She saw Robert Paege doing his daily laps of the camp, to keep himself in shape, and Hoster Blackwood sat by a fire, reading a book he had taken from the Twins. She sat herself beside him, and stretched her hands out to warm them on the fire. They were in silence for a few seconds. Blackwood didn't even look up from his book to acknowledge that she was there. He would be easy to kill, and yet he was a knight. She had no desire to see him dead though.

"What are you reading?"

Only then did he look up, and he seemed genuinely surprised to see her. They had talked on occasion, more than she had with most of Lord Mallister's men, but they had no cause to discuss literature.

"It is a book on the houses of the Riverlands. It talks of their origins, and some of their more famous members. I am reading of Agnes Blackwood, who defied House Hoare until the bitter end. She was prophetic."

Arya raised her eyebrows at that. What reason did he have to believe such stories? She had thought this boy to be clever.

"She prophesised that the line of Hoare would be ended in blood and fire, and then- Well, everyone in Westeros knows about what happened to Harren the Black in his grand castle. Some say it is still haunted by his ghost. Can you believe that? Ghosts at Harrenhal."

"I can."

It was a simple answer, to a simple question. She had been a ghost in Harrenhal. When she had been held there by Tywin Lannister and Roose Bolton. She had killed whoever she wanted. She remembered Weese, who had been her taskmaster, but she could not remember the other that she had told Jaqen to kill. He was forgettable. She had grown used to killing.

"The ability to see things in the future is something that runs in my family, my father said. My brother Lucas could not do it, nor can I, but my eldest brother- "

Hoster grew wide-eyed then, and he snapped the book shut and rose to his feet.

"I have said too much. Forget it. My brother is as normal as I am. He- he isn't special. He didn't see anything. Not about you or anything."

Hoster turned to scamper away, but by that time she had grabbed him by the hand, and started to apply pressure.

"What did your brother see, Hoster?"

He whimpered.

"No. No. I can't tell you. My father- "

"Your father is not here. I am. You do not want to anger me. What did your brother see, and how does it involve me?"

"He- Three wolves joined. Three wolves where the winter falls and the darkness rises. Beneath the stone is the light to break all darkness. Three wolves. One of death, one of life, and one stuck in between both. They must come together. There will be others, but the three wolves are the most important. Three wolves means three heads."

He shook her off then, as her grip had loosened. He scampered away as she was left to her thoughts. A prophecy predicting three wolves? Could that mean that there were other Starks alive, and that they would meet her wherever winter falls and the darkness is most powerful? Where could that be?

These could easily be the ravings of a madman from a mad family, and maybe that is what she would have thought a few years before, but her journey had changed her. The Faceless Men had shown her that magic did exist, and that it could be harnessed. Had she not heard the prophecies made by the Ghost of High Heart? Had she not predicted the lone wolf howling and dying? That had to be Robb. The other predictions she did not know. She had even predicted Arya becoming a girl of death. No. Prophecy was real. She knew that.

"But what could he mean…"

"I wouldn't listen to what Hoster Blackwood has to say if I were you, wolf girl. He spends far too much of his time with his head in a book. Leaves the mind deranged, and not fir for purpose. Maesters will tell you the opposite."

She turned, and sighed inwardly when she saw Kirth Vance before her. Of all the men that Jason had brought with him from the Twins, it was Kirth that she least liked. He was callous and arrogant, and thought every problem could be solved with his sword, or by killing a man. He reminded her a bit of the Hound in that regard, though Kirth was nowhere near as deadly.

"Wars need more than soldiers. They need thinkers. If it were all about who had the most swords- "

"Then the Lannisters would always win? They usually do. Roger Reyne was a fine mind, but he died. Rhaegar Targaryen read his fill of books. He died. Stannis Baratheon is more thinker than fighter- "

"And he still lives!"

Kirth scoffed at that. She hated his easy arrogance and sense of self-importance, especially because he was so wrong to feel that way about himself.

"Barely. He rots away in the North. Away from the fight. He lives because no-one else has bothered to kill him yet. When Daenerys Targaryen or Euron Greyjoy decide to go after him then he will perish just like the rest. There are reasons that you see so few maesters on the front lines. It isn't their place."

She looked at him angrily and her voice started to rise.

"Who are you to tell people where their place is? What wars have you won? Who have you killed? No-one. You're nothing! You're a- "

She was cut off.

"Arya! Silence!"

She turned, and found the eyes of Jason Mallister bearing into her. He had Hoster Blackwood and Desmond Grell at his back, with the latter having his hand on his sword. They had seen what she could do at the Twins. They needed no reminder. She turned back to Kirth, who had gone pale, and she realised that she had drawn Needle and pointed it at him, without her even knowing it. She sheathed it and turned back to Jason, who nodded at her, and indicated for her to join him in his tent. She did.

"I would appreciate it if you deigned not to attack my commanders in my camp. You are my guest. These men are of high birth and have powerful friends. You want Edmure on side? Kirth is amongst his closest friends."

"The man is a fool, then. Kirth Vance is nothing. He is a weasel and a boil on the face of life."

That caused Jason to chuckle, but then he straightened his face, as if he had to remind himself to be serious. She liked the Mallister leader. He was a good combination of clever, serious and understanding. He had taken her in after he had seen what she did to Lothar Frey. Others would have called her a rabid animal.

"I accepted what you did to Lame Lothar because he wronged your family. Kirth Vance did not. The Vances of Atranta were loyal as anyone to the Starks. He does not deserve your wrath. The true fool is the one who waists their anger on their allies, and does not save it for their enemies. Do you understand that?"

"I do. But- "

He held his finger up, to indicate that she should be silent.

"Learn when to stop at I do, my dear. Not everything requires a but, does it? Men can be fools. Believe me, I have been fool enough in my time, but we are proud creatures, and find it not so easy to be argued with by a woman."

"It is not my fault that I was born with no cock between my legs."

He smiled wryly and shook his head at her.

"And is it Kirth's fault that he was? What did he say that got you so riled up, my dear?"

"He criticised Hoster for reading too much. He said it made him a fool."

Jason stayed silent for a few seconds after that. He was contemplating what she had said. Arya had come to learn Jason Mallister's thinking face over the last few days. He furrowed his brow, and his eyes stared into the distance.

"I think you are both right."

She was taken aback. How could he not side with her? She was right.

"What? How could- "

"Obviously it does not make Hoster a fool for reading as much as he does, but he is a fool for thinking that books will teach him to fight and to survive. Hoster is not a fighter. He has his talents. Fighting is not one of them. Kirth is right in this regard. Yet you are right too, for Hoster is truly a very clever boy. Maybe Kirth is jealous of this fact. His own brother is a maester, you know?"

She glared at the ground. This old man thought that he knew more than she did? He thought he understood the world better than her? Not every hero was someone whose sole skill was strength with a sword. There were plenty of heroes who relied on their wits or mind. A strong mind can be just as potent as a strong sword.

"May I make my leave, my lord."

Jason frowned, but then waved her away. She stormed out, and found Gavin Grell stood outside, and saw that Kirth had taken her place by the fire. He turned to her, and smirked. How she wanted to stab him in both of his eyes. She didn't care how friendly he was with her uncle.

"Have my horse saddled up, Ser Gavin. I wish to ride."

Gavin Grell looked unsure about that, but one glare from her and he started nodding.

"I will need to find some riders to serve as a retinue- "

"There is no need, Ser. I prefer to ride alone. I am more than capable of defending myself, or do you need some reminder of what I did to Lothar Frey? That could be you too, if you want."

She had her horse ready quickly enough after that, and spurred it on, out into the rolling plains of the Riverlands. When she had come south with her father, she had liked to explore these lands with her friend, Mycah, but he had died, and they had never gone very far away from the travelling party. She had no intention of returning to Jason Mallister that night, but he knew not to expect her She would find some trees to give her shelter this night, and catch up with Mallister the following day.

She reached a village soon enough. It was a small place, empty and abandoned. By the looks of it, there had been some small skirmish fought here. That would have been what scared all the people away. The bridge was intact, however, and she used it to cross the Red Fork. She was riding south. It was another few hours before she stopped again. The plains were flat, but in the distance, she saw a high hill. She would be safe up there, and so she set off again, reaching the hill after another couple of hours of riding.

The hill was covered in trees that were growing in and out of each other. It was spooky. When she reached the top, she tied up her horse, and threw herself to the ground. She had not realised how tired she was, and so she drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep.

It was dark by the time that she woke again, and the stars were twinkling in the sky. She heard the sound of the wind in the trees. That confused her. She did not feel the touch of wind on her skin. She listened closer.

"Girl of death desecrating this place again… What became of the Lightning Lord who came with her here before… I saw the chicken lord dead before her… The weasel choked in her hands… I saw them all… Girl of death…"

She pulled herself up, and saw a small, haggard crone staring at her from across the clearing. How had she come here and not realised that she had been here twice before. This was High Heart, and this woman was the fabled ghost who lived here. They had met before.

"I come seeking shelter for one night. I shall not disturb you."

"The children of darkness and of bronze, too… Yes. I see it. The darkness converges, and the wolf howls, but no-one can hear it. When the cold winds blow, and the dead rise… Snow falls into darkness… I see it all."

The Ghost's eyes were wide open as she spoke. Arya pulled herself to her feet.

"You said where the darkness converges. Do you see where it is?"

The Ghost nodded.

"Yes. It is where the word of the red god slumbers. Beneath stone and snow and death. I see other swords. The stone of night, carried by the grey knight. A stone of gold, taken from the corpse of another by a one-eyed squid. A brother held by a dragon, and his sister, who has been cold for so, so long, carried by a new owner. I do not see her face. I see you, girl of death… I see you at the centre of it all. Howling and hoping."

The Ghost then snapped out of whatever queer trance had overtaken her, and stared at Arya, who was looking at her. She realised her mouth must be open.

"Begone, wolf girl. Your kind is not wanted here. Not where Erreg committed his vile act. This place has seen enough death, and I have known enough tragedy in my time."

The Ghost's ears pricked then. Arya looked at her. What had she meant by any of what she had said? Where the sword of the red god lies? Where was that?

"Someone is coming. I must leave."

The Ghost shuffled into the trees. Arya went to follow her, but when she got there, the Ghost had vanished. How could that be? Was she really a ghost? She heard what the Ghost had heard then. The sound of horses, and the quiet conversation of men. She hurried over to her horse, and pulled Needle from it's satchel. The men appeared up the path as she turned, wielding it in front of her.

There were five men, all on horseback. Four of the men hanged back. The other, who looked like he may be the leader, rode his horse forward. He looked down on her, with dark eyes. He was inspecting her. There was a smirk on his face that reminded her of Kirth Vance, and how much she had wanted to kill him earlier.

"Greetings, girl. We had expected this place to be deserted so that we could spend the night here."

"I am here. It isn't deserted."

He chuckled.

"I can see that, girl, but I am a knight, and- Well, I don't know what you are. Run along and leave this place for me."

His eyes gleamed.

"Or stay, and I will help keep you warm, and my men will protect you."

"I don't need their protection. I have Needle."

He raised his eyebrows.

"Yes, it looks a pretty blade, but how would it fare against five full grown knights in armour? Now is not the time to pick a fight, girl."

"I'm no ordinary girl, Ser."

She spat the last word with some venom. This man was not a proper knight.

"I am an ambassador of Daenerys Targaryen. I am a party of the army of Lord Jason Mallister. Hurt me and neither will be pleased."

That caused the stranger and his men to laugh, and she gripped her sword even tighter, as she went red in the face.

"If we are being candid, then I am Ser Andrew Tollett, the sworn sword of King Yohn Royce. I was sent to the Riverlands looking for the Stark girl."

"Well, you've found her. I am Arya Stark. The last sight that you will ever see."

Andrew looked her up and down again, and then smirked.

"Yes. I see it now. The long face. The dark hair. The grubby clothes. You are a Stark, aren't you?"

He turned to his men, who all readied their horses or their swords.

"She'll do."


	85. Daenerys VI

What Daenerys discovered when she landed w Drogon on a hill nearby was not the city that she had been expecting, but the shell of it. It was a ruin, destroyed and decimated by some great disaster. There was already a small army here, but they made no move towards her or her troops. What was she to do? She had not been expecting this. She had not factored this into her plans. She had not even thought that this was a possibility. She had assumed that she would have to do this to King's Landing, and hadn't thought that it would already be done when she got here.

"They fly the dragon of your father's house, your grace."

She turned, and found that Lord Aurane had come ashore, along with Gerion Lannister, Tom Tidewood, Jorah Mormont and Ser Barristan. They were her generals, for better or for wise.

"I see the flag of my own house, too. House Selmy must stand with whoever this army belongs to."

She already knew who it was. There was only one other Targaryen who sought the Iron Throne. It must be him. It was the only option. Had he done this? She had underestimated him if he had. She had not expected something like this from her nephew.

"That army must be the men sworn to Aegon. They make no move to attack us, so I assume they are not necessarily our enemies here. Tidewood, get the prisoner ashore. Ser Barristan and Lord Aurane will go see what these men have to say, and whether they desire to discuss their surrender to me. Go have our prisoner brought ashore, Tidewood. We should send them a message so that they know what it means to break an oath of allegiance made to me."

The three men all nodded to her, and went their respective ways, and so she was left with Gerion Lannister and her loyal Ser Jorah.

"Ready the troops, Lord Lannister, in case we have need of their swords and arrows. Walk with me, Ser Jorah."

She stepped away, and Gerion left. Jorah walked just behind her. She could tell that he was measuring his stride so as to not pass her, as his normal stride was much longer than the steps that he was taking. They walked in silence for a time, and she could tell that he had no intention of breaking it.

"What do you think happened here? Was it my nephew do you think? Does he have the Baratheons as his prisoner? Did he die in the fighting?"

Ser Jorah did not respond for some time, and so she stopped walking and turned to him. He looked to be deep in thought. He saw her stare, and nodded.

"I was once told that your father had stores of wildfire kept underneath the city, just in case it would be taken. It is possible these were set off by accident."

"Or on purpose…"

That thought caused them to be silent for a few seconds. Had the people of King's Landing known what was coming? She had at least given the people of Qohor the opportunity to bend the knee before unleashing Drogon upon them. Had the same luxury been given to these people?

"Who was it who told you?"

Jorah visibly squirmed under that question, not wanting to answer, but eventually her glare caused him to bow his head.

"Lord Varys the Spider, my Lady. Whilst I was spying on you and your brother for him. He said- He said that your brother was too much like Aerys."

She nodded, and looked out to the burned city.

"Lord Varys was the foreign pet of my father. He is friends with Mopatis, is he not? What interest did Lord Varys have in my brother?"

"They work together, but I never thought they wanted the same. Illyrio was more… He did not want to see either of you suffer. Lord Varys… They do not call him the Spider for no reason. He has a thousand eyes spread across this world. There is not a game played by a lord or higher that he does not know of, sometimes before the lord himself knows. I never thought he cared for you or your brother."

She stared into the distance. Viserys had spoken to her of the Spider of Essos. He was untrustworthy, and had sought to betray their father. Yet it had been he who had warned the King of their brother's intentions at Harrenhal.

"Why should he. The two of us have never met. Illyrio knows that he will only benefit from the kindness he showed me and Viserys if one of us survives. He is a money-maker, not a diplomat. He will grow even fatter upon my success. What does the Spider have to gain from me that he could not have had from the Usurper or his children?"

"And yet the Imp says that it was Varys who saved him and sent him to you."

She scoffed.

"We are yet to see if Tyrion Lannister is a gift or something of detriment to me dressed in the clothes of a lion. I am sure many men have tried to work out what game the Spider plays with his many webs. He is nowhere to be seen. I care about him little enough to devote time to thinking of him when war and battle is on the table. We must win the throne today, before we dedicate time to thinking of those others who play games for the throne."

The two stood in silence for a few seconds, and then she saw a horse riding in their direction. The rider was wearing white armour, and had a white cloak flowing behind him. It must be Ser Barristan, then. He stopped before them and pulled up the vizor from his helm.

"The enemy generals have agreed to meet with you in no man's land, your grace. Lord Aurane is riding with them. I will ride you there, if you will."

"No, Ser Barristan. I will take my own ride. Ser Jorah, go to find Tidewood and tell him to bring the prisoner to the site of the meeting."

Ser Jorah nodded to her, and then strode away. She watched him leave, and then looked at Ser Barristan. The two had never got along when she had known them before, but it had been Barristan that named Jorah back to the Queensguard. He had forgiven Jorah for serving Varys, so she could to. Clearly the memory of his treachery still hurt her bear.

"You have no horse, your grace."

"No. I don't."

As she spoke, she looked to the sky, and no sooner had she done that, then Drogon swooped down and landed besides her. He always seemed to know what it was that she wanted him to do nowadays. It was like they were connected mentally.

"Ride ahead of me, Ser Barristan. Tell Lord Aurane and our enemies that I will be there shortly."

Her white knight bowed his head and rode away. She turned to Drogon. He was dressed in the armour that Marwyn had designed for him. They covered his underbelly and head. Both the weak points that Marwyn had discovered. One of the Conqueror's dragons had been killed by a scorpion bolt to the eye. Her dragon would not suffer that fate. She had made sure of that.

She mounted her son, and he took flight. They soared over the ruins of the city, perching on top of the ruins of some large church, before having him take off again, and then soaring over the city and back towards the enemy army. She saw the men stare up at her before she landed behind Ser Barristan and Lord Aurane. The gathered strangers were all taken aback as she stepped down.

"Greetings, gentlemen."

There were five men that had ridden forward with Aurane. One of them was a fat, balding man, dressed in loosely fitting armour. Another had the pallid skin of a corpse, and yet another was a small boy. They were hardly an inspirational group of enemies.

"May I present to you Lord Harry Strickland, of the Golden Company, Lord Urswyck, of the Brave Companions, and Edric Storm, the bastard son of Robert Baratheon. They are those who stand for the armies of Aegon Targaryen, your grace."

The Usurper's bastard? Where they trying to insult her? Had her nephew really pardoned this boy of the sins of his father? Could that be possible?

"It is true then? Dragons are born again in this world?"

"So you can see, sellsword. Let that be the first part of this reminder of the greatness of my father, and the rest of my family line. The dragons are reborn. It is not the boy claiming to be my nephew that has brought them back, but me, the daughter of Aerys. I took the eggs that were given to me by Illyrio Mopatis and I birthed them in the fire of my husband's pyre."

That caused the fat sellsword to look to the pallid one, who was looking down at the ground. It was the boy that stepped forward.

"He's very big. What is he called? Silverwing? Balerion?"

This was the Usurper's bastard? He was approaching Drogon, his arm outstretched. She tensed as she saw Drogon breathe in. Was he about to burn the boy? She had not commanded it, though she would not object to Robert Baratheon's child being killed. It may be some compensation for the fact that she had not been able to kill him herself.

Drogon did not go to burn him, however, but instead nuzzled the boy's hand. Was that a sign that these strangers could be trusted? Drogon was a very good judge of character. He hadn't trusted Xaro in Qarth, but had grown to trust Marwyn and Rogero, her allies.

"He is named Drogon. For my sun and stars, Khal Drogo."

"We have heard tell of another Khal in your service, your grace. He roams the Crownlands with his army, going from castle to castle. Last I heard he was turned away from both Stokeworth and Rosby. We have sent them ravens calling for their support, but they have ignored us too. The same with Duskendale and Hayford."

She turned back to Harry Strickland, who was the one speaking to her now. The other sellsword was yet to say a word. He had an unsettling presence.

"You seem very eager to inform me of your king's tactical movements, sellsword. Do you think that you may have picked the wrong side in this war? I am the dragon destined to sit upon the Iron Throne."

"The fine thing about my profession is that sides can be changed as quickly as gold is passed, your grace. The Golden Company was founded by a Targaryen to ensure the true line of the Targaryen family sit the Throne. If you have the gold to prove that is you and not Aegon…"

She bristled at that. This man should be craven enough to be on his knee before her by now. Where did he get the nerve to speak like this to her? She should not have to pay this man to support her. He should do it out of the good will for the realm. She was the right choice.

"My brother desired gold, too. That did not end well for him."

"I am more than aware of the fate that befell your brother, your grace. He was, after all, our first choice for the Throne. As I recall, however, it was not you who gave him the molten gold, but your husband. Who is the man who will kill me here? If I die, then any peace you think you have here ends with me."

Was that a threat? First he thought that he was the one who could dictate the terms of his own surrender, and then he thought that he could threaten her. She should burn this craven here and now.

"Now, about that gold…"

"You know Illyrio. You know his wealth. He will reward you, should you place me upon the Throne."

The sellsword had a thin smile on his face, as if he knew some secret, and that he was mocking her inside.

"Illyrio Mopatis is currently paying me to support Aegon. You think he would pay me more if I betrayed him and supported you? That seems unlikely, your grace."

"A lordship then. Any castle you desire."

Strickland smiled properly at that, and did not even need to think on the topic.

"Promise me Storm's End, and my men are yours, your grace."

"It is yours. When my enemies are dead, and this war is ended."

He nods, and then turns to the other sellsword.

"Ride back to the camp, Lord Urswyck. Tell them that we have found ourselves a new ruler. Aegon and his party are still in the city, but seize Gower, Martell, and anyone else who might stay loyal to him. Be swift."

The corpse-like man nodded, and mounted his horse, before riding away. Daenerys realised she hadn't heard him say a single word, and yet she was glad that he was gone. His presence alone had been off-putting.

As one of the gathered people rode away, two more approached. She recognised them from afar as being Tom Tidewood and Ser Jorah. There was another figure, too. Strapped on the back of Ser Jorah's horse. She smiled at that. It was finally the right time to end this chapter, and to send a message to Harry Strickland at the same time.

The two men dismounted their horse. Tidewood dealt with the prisoner whilst Ser Jorah stepped forward.

"He is ready, your grace."

"Excellent."

Tidewood threw the man down onto his knees. He then pulled the matted hair away from his face, revealing the facial features of Brown Ben Plumm. He had been a prisoner for so long that his face was covered in grime. There was hate in his eyes as he looked up at her. Strickland looked down at the man, and then back up to her.

"I was not aware that we were expecting any more guests, your grace."

"Step aside, Lord Strickland. Ser Jorah, take the boy away and make sure he is kept under watch. We don't want to lose him, do we?"

Ser Jorah nodded, and swept up Edric Storm, placing him on the back of his horse, before then riding off, back to the camp that was being set up on the coast. She then turned back to Ben Plumm, who spat on the ground.

"Took your time to come and see me. I see Mormont was pardoned. No same fate for me? All I did was pick the winning side."

"You lost, traitor."

Ser Barristan had dismounted his horse, and was standing at the side. Tidewood moved to stand beside him.

"I did not factor a treacherous Lannister into my plans, Barristan the Old."

"Then you were fool for blindly thinking that a Lannister could be trusted. My father made the same mistake, and it cost him his life. Your mistake will cost you yours."

There was a brief look of uncertainty on the face of her prisoner then. Had he thought that she was taking him out now to pardon him? Did he think that she could possibly have forgiven him for what he did? That just made what would happen next all the sweeter. She would watch him burn, and he had never expected it.

"We are of the same blood. I am your kin. The Plumms have the blood of the dragon in their veins. I am your kin. You cannot kill me."

She laughed, and turned to walk towards Drogon. She saw Tidewood and Ser Barristan move backwards. They knew what was coming, even though she had not told them her whole plan.

"Is that so, traitor? You know the crime that you committed. King's blood or not, you must be punished, and the punishment for treason is death."

She turned to him, her hand on Drogon's neck, and a smile on her face.

"Goodbye, Ben Plumm. Dracarys."

Drogon's fire was near blistering, but she could withstand it. In fact, it made her feel stronger, as if she was drawing power from the flames. She caught a look of Harry Strickland as he watched the flesh melt from the bones of his sellsword colleague. When the bones were charred into ash, and there was nothing left to distinguish Brown Ben Plumm. She felt that power still. She felt that she could bring anyone to their knees now.

"We must move quick now. Ser Barristan, gather fifty riders and take them to the Red Keep. I will take Drogon and fly straight there. We must secure Aegon, now that we have secured his army."

Barristan nodded, and mounted his horse. There was a sullen, sulking look on his face. He clearly wasn't happy with her treatment of Ben Plumm. He had deserved it. Traitors deserved a horrible death. Tidewood followed Barristan on the back of his own horse. She turned back to Strickland.

"What should I expect inside the city?"

"He took his Hand of the King with him, and twenty knights, including four of the members of his Kingsguard. His queen went with him, too. He wanted her to be there when he first sat on the Iron Throne."

She nodded, and then turned to Drogon, walking back towards him, with a sway in her hips. She mounted the dragon and, without another word to Strickland, they took to the skies. Soaring in the wind, and feeling it rippling it through her hair on her skin. She circled the city until she saw a group of riders leading her camp. That would be Ser Barristan and his war party. It would include Tidewood and Rakharo. She knew that. They were both brave and bloodthirsty, hungry for success on the battlefield.

She would not go to meet them just yet. They would join her in the Red Keep. Drogon stopped on the top of the tallest standing tower, perching there for a few seconds, before pushing off and dropping to the floor below. She was in the ruins of the hall. The floor was covered in ash and soot. The remnants of the walls were like the bones of the building that had once stood here. She ran her hand along Drogon's back.

"Who goes there? Who are you? What is this?"

She was suddenly confronted by an old man, with grey hair thinning on his head, and the remnants of a thick, red beard. His face was red and flushed, and he fumbled for his sword, but dropped it. He was no threat to her.

"My name is Daenerys Targaryen, the rightful and true protector of the realm. This is Drogon, my son and dragon. He can be your end, if you want to fight me."

The man sank to his knees before her, and she saw him for how frail he was. Drogon went to him, and her view of the Iron Throne was unblocked. She looked to it, and was taken aback by what she saw. There was a figure sat upon it, wearing a crown on his head, but his whole skin was covered in stone scales, like Drogon's. Before him was laid the body of a girl, who was also covered in grey stone. She was motionless, but the one sat on the throne was moaning and moving slightly.

"What has happened? Who are they?"

"He's dead. He's dead. I killed him."

She looked back to the man knelt on the floor, and then to the person sat upon the throne. Could it be? She had built this moment up since she had been told that he was still alive. Was that him?

"Is- Is that Aegon?"

"Yes. He is dead. I killed him."

He was the last member of her family still alive. How could fate rob her of meeting him, and finding out whether he was really who he claimed to be. Was he really her nephew? She would never know now. He had been robbed from her before she could find out.

"No. He still lives. He should die like a Targaryen. That is the only right way."

She turned to the kneeling man, and then to Drogon.

"Dracarys."

For the second time that day she felt the searing heat of Drogon's flame pass her. It gave her strength when she needed it most. The flames covered her possible nephew and the girl who she did not know. It must have been the queen that Harry Strickland had mentioned. She cared little for her. It was her nephew that she cared for. The flames stopped, and she closed her eyes. He was gone.

She opened her eyes just in time to see the boy fall from the throne. His skin had lost the scales of stone, and his clothes had burned away. He was naked. The girl was gone. She ran forward. How could this be? He had been stricken with greyscale. How could he be cured? Had Drogon done it?

She looked down at him as he lay on the floor, and when he opened his eyes she could tell that he was who he claimed to be. He was a Targaryen. He was her nephew.


	86. Tyrion II

The waves washed over his feet. They were not the normal colour of the ocean, which he had become more than familiar with over his travels, but a murky black. They were the colour of shadows, and they started to rise. Soon the water was at his waist, and yet his breeches were not wet. Was this water? It seemed to have a mind of its own. He had heard tales of magicians in Asshai who could manipulate the very shadows of the world. This seemed to be some sort of living shadow. He tried to turn, but it gripped him in place. He could not move, and the shadows now covered him up to just under his neck. He tried to scream, but he could not speak. He was trapped and silent. This was his nightmare. He heard whispers come to him over the ocean breeze.

"Power resides where men believe it resides. No more and no less. A shadow on the wall, yet shadows can kill. And ofttimes a very small man can cast a very large shadow."

Those words… The eunuch had spoken them to him when he first arrived in King's Landing. They had been the answer to the riddle of power that he had asked him. What was the answer? The answer was that power was nothing. Why does a king hold it? Why does a man of full height believe that he is more powerful than a halfman? Because he is, or- Where does the power truly lie? Where men believe it to reside?

No. Men with this power have kept dying in Westeros. Aerys Targaryen, his son Rhaegar. Robert Baratheon and Ned Stark. Tywin Lannister, and Joffrey. They were the men that the kingdom thought to be powerful. And yet they died. Who were the people that survived? Varys, and Littlefinger, and Pycelle, and himself. The people who were seemingly powerless, yet held all the power. That was the game that Littlefinger played, and Varys, too. Was that the answer to the riddle? Power resides where men least believe that it resides.

How did that help him now? How would it saver him from this? Why had those words spoken to him so many years ago been the ones that came to mind?

"Shadows can kill. Is that what is going to happen here?"

"I am afraid not, my lord. Today is not the day that you die. This isn't even really happening. It's all in your head."

Tyrion opened his eyes wide, and saw Lord Varys walking towards him, the shadows parting before him. What was this? Why was he dreaming of this?

"You remember the riddle? Power resides where it is meant to. Everything that happens takes place for a reason. It is all in the mind of the man in question. A man with a sword, your brother perhaps, can shape the history of a kingdom by killing a king. If it were all about swords, though, then how would men like me or you make an impact? We are still important. Why is that, my Lord?"

"My mind is to me what Jaime's sword is to him. That is the answer to your question, Lord Varys. Men with great minds have defined Westeros just as much as men with swords."

Varys smiled at him.

"Then save yourself from this, my lord. It is in your power. Just wake up."

Tyrion's eyes snapped open, and he found himself not covered by shadowy water, but asleep in his bed on Dragonstone. The room was cold and drafty, and his bed large and empty. He was alone. He would be for the rest of his days.

He pulled himself to his feet, and waddled over to the table, before pouring himself a glass of the wine that he had found on the island. Stannis Baratheon had never been one for heavy drinking, but clearly someone on the island had liked a tipple, for there had been a few bottles of Arbor Gold and Dornish Red in the cellars, but no dragon skulls, as there had been in King's Landing. He drank the glass in one gulp, and then shuddered. Was that the cold chilling him, or the thought of last night's dream? Why had Varys appeared to him? He had not thought of the eunuch in many months. He did not even know if the man was alive.

"He seemed to be very living. Just as mysterious and misleading as ever. Maybe it is my memory that recollects him speaking in nothing but riddles."

That thought was followed by a knock on the door. He pulled on his undershirt and breeches, and then went to answer it. He was surprised by who he found on the other side. Tysha. She stormed into the room, and then turned to him. There was anger in her eyes. He gulped.

"You asked Gerion to leave me behind, didn't you? I should be by his side, fighting our enemy if necessary. I am wasted here. I am not some timid maid. I can defend myself, should I need to do so."

She was quite right. He had asked Gerion to leave her with him. She had loved him once She was the only woman ever to do so. He wanted to try and bring those feelings ack to the surface, so that they could both be happy.

"My uncle knew someone had to be left behind to command the ships guarding the bay. He chose you. That should surely be an honour?"

"I know Gerion better than you do, Imp. He would not leave me here if he was not asked to do so. He cares for you, for whatever reason. He is a fool for that."

Tyrion frowned and shook his head.

"With respect, my lady, you barely know me. I do not see how- "

"I know you better than anybody, Tyrion Lannister. I know you better than yourself, even. You were a coward when your father had me raped. You have lived your entire life as a coward. Either scared of your father, or your sister, or yourself."

"I killed my father for you- "

"Fifteen years too late. You killed him, we can agree on that much, but for me? No. For yourself. You finally grew some balls and did what somebody should have done a long time before. Tywin Lannister was a monster, and a disease on the land. His death was well deserved, but even then you did not do it out of bravery, but out of self-preservation."

He was speechless. It reminded him of the way that he had felt in the dream. It was as if his tongue had been removed from his body. There was no answer to her. She was right. He had been a coward his entire life, and had been saved by better men. Killing his father had been his greatest feat, but it was an act of cowardice to do so.

"You never came looking for me after your father sent me away. He sent me to a brothel in Lannisport. I was always to look at Casterly Rock and think of you, but we could never touch. He sent guardsmen to take me. I saw you with others, but I never stopped seeing you as the boy who saved me. Then your uncle came and saved me. He told me that he was going on a quest to Valyria, to recover a sword. He wanted me to come with him."

"Why? Why did Gerion want you? What purpose did you serve him?"

She turned away from him.

"He took me in his bed every night. Is that what you want me to tell you? It would be a lie. Gerion has never laid a finger on me, neither have his men, unless I wanted them too. He took me because he knew my love for you was real. He wanted me to be part of the group that brought the sword back so that your father might forgive me. He had promised all of the crew knighthoods and rewards. He may have pardoned me."

She walked to the wine, and poured herself a glass, before drinking it deeply.

"I stayed in Volantis as he went to Valyria. I waited for him, but he did not return. I was worried that he would never come back. For many moons I waited, and there was no sign."

"He was attacked, was he not? By Euron Greyjoy? He left him to die. My uncle has told me this much already."

She shook her head. The anger had not left her eyes, but her voice was softer now.

"Euron was not the first. There was another. He came, and he took Brightroar, and then Euron came, looking for the sword. The first was a Farwynd. That was what Gerion said. Euron destroyed the ship because Brightroar was already gone. Gerion survived, and returned, but he was different. He was more intense. He knew he could never return home. Not as a failure. We took our ships and we searched for the Farwynd pirate, and that was how the legend of the Corsair King was born."

He looked down at the ground. Gerion had exiled himself out of choice? Because he knew that Tywin would never accept someone in who had let the Lannister name and legacy down. He had abandoned his daughter because of what Tywin would have done. What a lonely life he must have left. He had wanted to return, but he never could.

"We visited King's Landing. We saw Robert Baratheon grow fat, and you grow in power. Gerion was so proud of you, but all I saw was whore after whore. They were how you replaced me, and then she came. The one that you professed to love."

Shae? How did she know about her?

"Were those words that you spoke to any whore, Imp? What do those words mean to you? Nothing? Do you only use them to get between a woman's legs? Was that how it was with me?"

There were tears in her eyes as she said that. He shook his head slowly, but she just snarled.

"Do not lie to me, Tyrion. I have known Lannisters long enough to know when they are lying. That was when I stopped loving you, and only then. Up until then I thought you could still be mine. I was a fool playing make believe. It took all that I was to not slit your throat during the journey across the Narrow Sea."

He hanged his head, and then looked up at her.

"There is still hope for us, Tysha. I can still be the man that you remembered, the one who helped to save you, and who sung you songs and slipped that ring onto your finger. Let me prove that to you. Let me show you."

She scoffed.

"Show me what, Tyrion? Show me your cock, as so many whores have seen? True, it felt good inside of me, better than any I have had since, whether they were men I wanted or not, but it is not enough. You think yourself a clever man, with your family's gold and your books, and yet you can't see the clear truth. Talk to me when you find it."

She then stormed from the room, and he was left alone again. The room seemed colder and larger now. How could that be? How could he feel more alone than he did this morning, after just talking with the woman that he loved? What had she meant about a clear truth. And how did that all tie into the things that Varys had told him in his dream that morning.

Tysha was an example of what Varys had said. She was a weak woman, who had been hardened by her experiences, and men saw her as a leader, and respected her more than most. Did our actions create power? Was that it? Was it that simple?

"M'lord?"

He turned, and found a messenger stood in the doorway. He was one of the guards that stood upon the wall. He could tell that from his dress.

"Yes. What is it, man?"

"Ships, m'lord. Ships in the distance."

"Is it Daenerys?"

The man shook his head.

"No, m'lord. They do not fly our banners. They fly a red sun and some purple and blue quarters, m'lord."

The latter was one he did not know, but the former was the sigil of House Martell. The Dornish were here already. He had not expected them so soon.

"Fetch some of the other nobles. Ser Andrey Dalt for one, and then Grand Maester Marwyn, and Motho, too. Have them meet me on the beach."

That they did. He was dressed in the clothes that had been prepared for him. There was a black doublet, with red stitching. His breeches were black, too. The colours of House Targaryen, who he now followed and served.

The others were here, too. Motho was dressed in his Dothraki leathers and Marwyn had come in his cream coloured robes. Most maesters wore grey everywhere, but Marwyn did not. He was odd in that regard.

A rowboat pulled ashore, and out of it stepped ten people. Of them, four stepped towards Tyrion and his party. The leader was a tall man with blonde hair and an easy smile. He was flanked with an old man with a bristly moustache and a white beard. He wore a doublet of purple and blue, so he must be the man who's sigils were being flown alongside the Martells. Then came a swarthy man, with loose limbs and a long nose. The last man was tall and slim, with a head covered in white curls. He was dressed in an outlandish get-up, probably from somewhere in the Free Cities.

It was the first man that stepped forward further. Tyrion went to meet him. The man's easy smile was more a smirk as he looked down upon him. Tyrion offered his hands, and the other man took it.

"I am Lord Tyrion Lannister. Queen Daenerys has chosen that it should be me who welcomes our most distinguished friends from Dorne. Who is it that I am addressing?"

"A man most familiar with your queen, and who is sad not to see her present. She was truly a beauty to look upon. My name is Ser Gerris Drinkwater, a sworn knight to Prince Doran Martell."

He had expected Ser Manfrey Martell, Prince Doran's cousin, or his daughter, Arianne, not some knight from a lowly house that he had barely heard of. The Drinkwaters were a new house formed after the Blackfyre Rebellion. They were little more than a family of hedge knights, with some small tower in the Red Mountains.

"May I introduce you to Lord Selwyn of Tarth, the fabled Evenstar. He joined us on our journey. He supports Aegon Targaryen. We are hoping to unite Daenerys with him. That will be required if you want Dornish support in your wars."

"Our war is with everyone else that pretends a claim on the Iron Throne. It is Daenerys' throne by right of birth."

"She is a woman, and Aegon is the firstborn son of her elder brother. His claim is undeniably stronger than hers."

"If he is who he says he is. Whose word do I have for that? His own? You would have had Aegon the Conqueror bend the knee to each and every usurper who made up a claim?"

That caused the smile to be wiped from Drinkwater's face. Had he not expected the castellan of Dragonstone to stand his ground? Had he expected this to be easy? It would not be.

"I am sure that we will be able to negotiate some sort of peace between the Dornish and Queen Daenerys. She is not eager for war, nor is she eager to end the proud line of House Martell. We are looking for a resolution."

Gerris did not respond to that, but instead started to inspect the other people that Tyrion had brought to the beach.

"A motley crew. I assume all your warriors have travelled to the mainland with your queen, and so she has left a dwarf, two old men and a rogue Dornishman behind to hold the castle."

"Do not judge on looks alone, Ser Gerris. This man is Motho, one of the Great Khals of the Dothraki Sea. He is more than ruthless enough to deal with you. Not only that, but you see that cliff in the distance?"

Tyrion lifted his arm up and pointed off towards a jutting out spar of rock. On top of it lied what looked like a rock formation. Gerris looked to it, and raised an eyebrow. Then the rocks moved, and took to the air.

"Our Queen has also left two of her fabled dragons behind. Wrong me and I will have them burn your fleet. Do not test me, Ser."

Truth be told, Tyrion wasn't sure if the dragons would listen to him or not. He had viewed them many times on the trip here from Slaver's Bay, and they had listened to Ser Barristan, but he wasn't sure if that respect extended to him.

Gerris did not know that, though, and he clearly resigned to the fact that he would not be able to steal some great victory here.

"You should introduce me to the rest of your party then, Ser. It would be rude not to."

"Very well. This is Ser Garin of the Greenblood. He represents the Orphans of Dorne. My other companion is Salladhor Saan, who wishes to speak with Queen Daenerys."

Saan stepped forward then, and performed an over the top bow. The man was extravagant. Tyrion could tell that just from his appearance and his manner.

"It is an honour to meet the Imp who torched the fleet of King Stannis Baratheon on the Blackwater. I witnessed it happen, my lord. It was most… Impressive."

"Ah yes. I thought I recognised your name. You are the pirate who threw his hat behind Stannis. He is no king. The majority of the Seven Kingdoms does not acknowledge him as such, and he is farther from the Iron Throne than any other contender."

There was a twinkle in Saan's eye as he spoke next.

"The majority of the Seven Kingdoms sees you as being guilty for the murder of your nephew, Imp. Are the masses correct there?"

There was the sound of knowledge in Saan's voice. How could he possibly know that he wasn't the person that killed Joffrey. Did he know who really did it? Why would some pirate be aware of this priceless piece of information?

"The support of the masses does not make a king. Swords do. Money does. Stannis has both, now that the Iron Bank has given him his backing. I hear stories from Braavos, Imp. One of his knights has the ear of the Sealord. He persuades him to send men to Westeros and secure the throne in the name of Stannis."

"And how would you know this, pirate?"

Saan shrugged, an innocent look on his sharp face.

"How does a man know anything? One hears the whispers on the ocean breeze. A trader from the Summer Isles… A Lysene oarsman… A captain from Lannisport… Al men hold answers to questions if you just know what needs to be asked."

"Why do you come here with this information then? If you think Stannis will win this war, then why come to Daenerys Targaryen."

"A smart man assesses his options, Imp."

That wasn't a proper answer. The pirate was dodging the question. Why? What information was he trying to save?

"I know what it is. You abandoned Stannis, didn't you? You know that he won't forgive you. He may even hunt you down if he wins the throne. That's why you turn to Daenerys. Am I correct, pirate?"

There was no response from Saan to that. Tyrion did not need it. He had worked out the pirate's motivations and movements. He was sure of that. Still, it was a surprise to find a pirate amongst this party from Dorne. The groups stood in silence for a few seconds, and then Tyrion turned to the castle.

"You have the permission of my queen to stay in her castle, my lords. There will be beds made for all of you. Your men may have to stay on your ships."

Ser Gerris stepped forward, and blocked the path between Tyrion and Salladhor Saan.

"That will be fine, Lannister. When will we get to speak with Daenerys Targaryen. I wish to bring her the word of my Prince. He desires peace between our two great houses."

"We will set sail from here when I am sure that you can be trusted, Ser Gerris. I am here to make sure that you do not have ill intentions for my queen. It would be most unfortunate should she meet her end at the end of a Dornish blade. I am sure you would agree."

Gerris huffed, and looked away.

"The Dornish are more honourable than you give us credit for, Lannister. A Dornishman died for your freedom, and it was no Dornishman that sentenced babes to death in the Sack of King's Landing."

Tyrion sighed at that. How many time would these Dornish present this to him. He was not his father, thankfully. Tywin Lannister may have ordered Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch to murder the Dornish Queen and her children, but those men were all dead. They had paid for their sins in the end. They had all suffered. Was he to suffer for their crimes, too?

"I am sure that is true, Ser, but we can never be too sure, especially since we weren't sure who was being sent by the Martells, and even more so when they bring pirates along with them."

Gerris flushed at that. It was clear to Tyrion that Salladhor Saan had not been sent by Doran Martell, and had instead attached himself to the party during the journey, so at court favour with a new monarch who might be inclined to reward him with gold for his ships. Still, it was fun to tease the brash knight. He got enjoyment from it.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Andrey Dalt shake hands with one of Drinkwater's company. Ser Garin, had he been introduced as? There was a sense of familiarity in the handshake. These two knew each other.

"That appears to be all, my friends. Motho, if you could escort our new friends to their accommodation. Ser Andrey, I would speak with you in my chambers, if you would."

Dalt nodded, and they started their ascent. Tyrion travelled slower than all the others due to his height, so they rushed on ahead. He looked up at the battlements as he passed through the gate, and saw Ser Carter standing there, looking down at him, his usual thin, sadistic smile on his face. Tyrion wasn't sure whether he should like the man or be scared by him. Maybe it was wise to do both.

Ser Andrey was already in Tyrion's chambers when he arrived. He was stood in the middle of the room. Tyrion glanced to the wine, but there had been none taken. Had he just been waiting? This was most certainly not King's Landing.

"I thank you for coming, Ser. You know one of Ser Drinkwater's party, I take it. What is Garin of the Greenblood to you?"

Dalt looked uncomfortable stood there. Tyrion went to his wine and poured himself a goblet, but he did not offer his guest one.

"Me and him were acquaintances back in Dorne. I spent a lot of time at Sunspear and in the Water Gardens as a youth. We grew up together."

Tyrion was disappointed. He was hoping for something that he could use. This new information was not that.

"Is that all?"

"Well… No, my lord. We shared a common friend. Arianne Martell. We knew each other better through her. I did not know he had been knighted, my lord. Last I heard of him he had been sent to Lys in exile."

Doran was sending friends of Arianne Martell to treat with Daenerys? Why not just send his daughter? Tyrion had heard tales that she was most beautiful, and that she was an able diplomat. Did he not trust his own daughter to do the job, or did he not trust Daenerys to allow his daughter to return him?

"And Ser Gerris. Did you know him back in Dorne?"

Andrey shook his head.

"Not as such, my Lord. I knew of him. I had heard stories. His father was a vassal of the Yronwoods. He was a friend of Quentyn Martell. I had never met him."

"He sends us friends of children? Is Trystane Martell friends with Saan?"

"I don't think so, my Lord."

Tyrion shook his head exasperatedly. What was this boy? Did he have no personality? These were the times that he wished he still had Bronn around. Or Haldon, at the very least.

"'Twas just a joke, Ser Andrey. Why do you think he would send friends of his children? What is the game that he is playing here? What is the game?"

"They are expendable, my Lord. If we were to betray them then it matters nothing to Doran if Gerris Drinkwater dies. He clearly does not trust us enough to send his own kin."

Tyrion frowned. Was that all that this was? Was there no bigger game here? His father had always underestimated Dorne. He would not make that mistake. Doran Martell was one of the most powerful men in Westeros, and right now he held that power in the balance. Whoever had the support of Dorne…

"Maybe you are right, Ser Andrey. Go to Lady Tysha and tell her that we will need her ship. We will sail for King's Landing on the morrow. We must get terms of alliance brokered soon. I suspect we have not seen Arianne Martell here because she is already somewhere else looking for an alliance with someone else."

Just then, a knock came on the door. The two men turned to it. It didn't sound like someone knocking to seek entry, but instead someone falling against it. Tyrion turned to Andrey, who turned to Tyrion. There was a look of some fear in the boy's eyes. Did he have that same look?

"Answer it then, Ser."

Dalt stepped forward and pulled the door open, and a body fell forward. The man wore robes, but they were stained red. It was Grand Maester Marwyn, with a knife in his back. Dead.


	87. Samwell VI

The cold of winter had well and truly settled in the North. That was what Samwell Tarly had discovered over the last few weeks. The journey had been a long and lonely one, since he had parted with Gilly nearby to the Neck. The road had been, unsurprisingly, empty. Nobody wanted to travel long distances in this weather. He had stopped off at a tavern along the way, and heard tales of a bastard with a pack of hounds ravaging villages. Since then he had been scared that he may bump into him. This bastard sounded more unforgiving and more merciless than Jon had ever been. No, he would rather have an uneventful journey to the Wall.

That was what he had enjoyed. It was the first time in some time that something had gone entirely as he desired it. What a strange phenomenon it was. He was trying to enjoy it, though he couldn't help but feel that it was the quiet before the coming of some oncoming storm. The dead. That was what it would be. The army of the dead was coming for them all. He had thought Jon to be the only one who could stop it. Clearly he had been wrong.

He looked out on the Wall now. Castle Black was quiet, as it was still early in the morning. There would be a watcher on the gate, and others doing the early morning shift on the Wall. They would all be grumbling together, sat beside a fire in a brazier, warming their hands. Had he missed that? Surely not. At least those brothers would have had some company. He had been forced to talk to himself the last few weeks, when he wasn't flicking through the book that Marwyn had given him.

He made the approach to the castle thinking about that book. He was unsure why it was so important that he read the book. It chronicled the fall of Valyria and the Doom, but only in vague terms, and then the death of the Targaryen dragons. The ones that were confirmed dead, at any rate.

Marwyn and Sarella had clearly given him the book for some reason. They had wanted him to read it and learn something from it. A few years ago, he might have found it interesting, but now he couldn't help but think that there was something that he was missing. He felt moronic for not getting it. Had it seemed obvious to them? Had they expected him to get the truth instantly?

The gate to Castle Black was open already when he got there. Had they been expecting visitors? Had he been seen on the road, or was someone else coming here?

The courtyard was empty, too, though that was no surprise at this time. Often Donal Noye would have been up at this time, slaving away in the armoury, or Three Finger Hobb may be up preparing breakfast for the black brothers. Aside from them, however, most of the Watch would be asleep or on duty. Noye had died during the battle with the wildlings. Hobb would be inside.

He went up the stairs and found his way to the Maester's quarters. This was where he had slept some nights, but lots more were spent in the library. Maester Aemon had died on their journey south. He had been old, but Clydas may still be here. He should probably inform Aemon's eldest friend and colleague of his death. The Watch may not have been properly informed yet. He had sent a raven from Oldtown, but the chances were that it may not have arrived. Many ravens got shot down during these times of war.

The Maester's chambers were empty, however. He found Clydas not to be in his bed, and to be nowhere else either. There was a book laid open on the reading desk, with a candle next to it. The wax had melted almost all of the way down. Clydas had been reading recently. His eyes were failing, so it must have been for something important.

"The myths and legends of creatures from beyond the wall? What was he reading this for?"

It was a mighty tome, and one that Sam had become more than acquainted with in the library of the castle. He had spoken of it to Aemon once. It had been written by maester Furdik many centuries ago, and was one of the oldest books in the Watch's library. There was a copy in Oldtown, but this was the original.

"What troubled you so much that you would be reading so late on them, Clydas?"

He sat down and started to flick through the pages, until he got to one where something had been scribbled in the corner. It was in Clydas' writing style. It was written next to a passage on the Others and their legendary ice spiders and wolves of snow white fur. The Others were no myth, of course. He had killed one.

Clydas had scribbled in something about saltwater. What did that mean? How was that relevant to the task at the hand? Where the Others weak to salt? Was that what Clydas was trying to say? How could they use that in their favour, and how had Clydas worked it out? More importantly, however, where was Clydas? Had he disappeared from the face of the earth? He did not serve duty on the Wall, so unless he was away dealing with some injury then he should be here. He could have died since Sam had been gone, but the wax of the candle was warm. He had been here recently.

Then there came a sound from outside. It sounded like the gate closing, if that was the case then it meant that somebody was out there. Maybe they would be able to tell him where Clydas had gone, and why he was reading up on the Others.

The cold hit him when he stepped out. It was as if the wind had got even more biting since he had gone inside. The scene was fairly similar, but he was observant enough to notice a few changes. The gate had been closed. Someone had been there to change that, and there was a set of foot tracks in the snow. They were the footsteps of a worried man. This person had been hurrying, but where had they come from? There was still nobody in the courtyard.

The gate beyond the wall had been opened, he went towards it, and that was when he saw the two pikes, and the heads mounted upon them. He stepped closer to them, and then closer, and then he recognised the two heads. They were his brothers. There was the greasy orange hair of Mully, and the blond locks of Owen. He had been dim-witted. They had cruelly nicknamed him Owen the Oaf when he first joined, and the nickname had stuck.

He had heard tales of the Weeper, a Wildling chief who mounted the head of his victims on a pike. He removed their eyes, however, and these men still had theirs. They were dead and glazed over. The sign was clear. He was to go through the gate. Whoever had left the front gate open had clearly closed it so that he would be forced through here, and that was the way that the footsteps were headed. Someone had gone from this side of the Wall beyond it, and he had to find out who.

He took the brave steps through the tunnel. There was a burning torch ready for him on the wall. He took it and held it out in front of him to light the way. He cast it around, to see if there was anything hidden in the tunnel, but there was nothing. It was as deserted as the main castle had been. That was less strange. No brothers tended to congregate in the tunnel. They would all be in the hall. Except they weren't.

"Why would Mully and Owen be killed? Why would their heads be put there for me? Is this what Lord Reed meant when he said that something would happen?"

He was talking to himself more and more recently. That was never a good sign. He was hoping he would find his friends when he arrived at the Wall. Maybe he would, but the thought left him chilled. There was something wrong going on here.

The wind bit into him again as he left the tunnel. The gate here had been opened too. Whoever had opened it had done so quickly. He couldn't have been in the Maester's chamber that long, and yet there had been significant changes recently.

It was as he expected. There was another pike waiting for him on the other side, and another head there, too. This time he was looking at old Three-Finger Hobb. His face was wrinkled and old, and his hair wispy. The three remaining fingers on his right hand were nailed to the pike below his head. Why? Why was this one different?

He passed the pike, and saw another, on the edge of the Haunted Forest. That was just another sign of where he was meant to go. He was meant to follow the trail of his dead friends and brothers. Who was leading the trail, though, and where did it go? Was it safe to follow? Could he shy out now, or would he be killed if he turned his back and returned to Castle Black. He turned to look behind him, and the gate was closed. It had almost been silent. That could only have been done from the top of the Wall. Did that mean that there was two people?

Well, he couldn't go back now. He had to go onwards, even if it terrified him to do so. In fact, it was because he was terrified. If there were any of his brothers left, then he needed to go and try to save them from whatever was doing this. First he had to find whatever was doing this.

He walked towards the head. At first he couldn't make out whose it was, but then he could. His eyes opened wide, and he rushed through the snow, until he got to it. He looked into the lifeless eyes, his mouth agape. How could he not recognise the thin face and the large ears? This had been one of the boys who protected him. This had been one of the people who had actually been his friend. There had been so few, but here had been one of them. Pypar. He was so proud of his guile and his ear for accents. Had the person who was putting these out known his relationship with Pyp? Was this an unhappy accident? It couldn't be, surely.

He bowed his head and shuffled past the pike that bore his friend's head. The footprints continued into the Haunted Forest, and so he followed them. Every now and again he would find a pike with one of his brother's heads mounted on top. He passed Glendon Hewett, stony faced Jarmen Buckwell, old Othell Yarwyck, and wild Maester Mullin, who had served at the Shadow Tower. He must have come to Castle Black to cover for Aemon.

He walked past each of these with his eyes averted. He didn't want to think of these men and how their lives had ended. He didn't want to see their dead eyes staring at him. He stopped at some. When he saw the head of Alliser Thorne he stopped to stare at it. This was the man who had made him feel so small, and now he was nothing but a head on a stick. Even he had not deserved this.

Ulmer, who had taught Sam how to use a bow. Wynton Stout, who had been close friends with Hobb. He had been a great ranger in his day, but his wits had left him in his old age. Sam had not known him well, but he knew him to be relatively harmless. Then there were people that he recognised more. Jaren and Albett, who had been in the same group of recruits as him, were mounted together. Albett had been one of Rast's friends, who had never been kind to Sam. Jaren had been nice enough, however.

The next pike that he came to was different to the others. There was a head mounted atop it, and a black cloak covering it from the cold. What was so special about this one? Was it the last? Was that what this meant? Was he where he was meant to be? Did he dare removed the cloak?

He rubbed his fingers along the fabric. It was soft. It was the kind of cloak that a highborn, powerful brother would wear. A woman from Mole Town could not make cloaks like this. It would need to have been brought up from expert seamstresses from King's Landing or Gulltown.

He pulled the cloak and stepped back at the head he found there. It was Denys Mallister. His face was contorted into a look of shock and surprise. Something had caught him out. Whilst all the others had looked peaceful enough, this one did not. It was different.

"You're almost there, Sam the Slayer. Go on. He is waiting for you."

Sam turned. He knew that voice. He knew the person that had been following him. The cloaked figure was big and burly. When his hood came down, Sam found Grenn stood in front of him. What was this? Had Grenn been involved in Pyp's death? No. There was something different about him. His eyes. They were bright blue.

"Who- Who is waiting? Who did this? Did- Did you kill Pyp? Jaren?"

There was no proper response to those questions. Instead the icy cold eyes bore into him and urged him to walk on. Sam bit his lip, and then turned. There was no way that he could fight Grenn off. He had never been able to properly beat him in the courtyard of Castle Black. He shuffled on and could hear the heavy footsteps of Grenn following him. How had he not heard him before? Had it been him putting the heads out, or had it been he that closed the gates at Castle Black?

It was not a long way until Sam got the answers to his questions. He stepped out into a clearing and found a familiar place. This was the Castle Black weirwood. It was here that he had said his Night's Watch vows with Jon. Why here? Why had he been brought here? There was a circle of men around the clearing. They were all brothers of the Watch. He recognised them, save for their piercing blue eyes.

There was Donnel Hill, the bastard with the bow, and Luke of Longtown stood together. Luke's clothes were covered in frost and blood. Tom Barleycorn had lost his lower jaw but was still standing. Geoff the Squirrel had lost one of his arms, whilst Kegs had an axe lodged in his head. He saw Clydas amongst the wights. He had found him at least. It was not in the way that he had desired, however.

There was another figure stood in the centre of the clearing, with his back to Sam. He was slender of frame and wore a black cloak. He was staring up at the leaves of the weirwood. He looked familiar, but Sam was not sure who it was.

"He is here."

"I know, Grenn. You have done well."

The voice was almost sing-song, and would have been pleasant to the ear, had it not been for the circumstance that he was hearing it in. This was the man that had killed all of Sam's friends. It had to be, and yet when he turned, he did not seem like someone capable of mass murder. He had dark eyes and soft skin. Which was pale in the cold. His eyes were not blue. That was the first thing that Sam noticed. He was not a wight like the others.

"Do you remember me, Samwell Tarly?"

"I do not. Did you do this?"

The boy shook his head slightly, and then looked back up at the weirwood.

"We both swore our oaths under this weirwood, but at different times. I am not surprised that you do not remember me. My name is Satin. I am a steward, just like you. I spent time in Oldtown, just like you. We really aren't all that different."

"I disagree. I would never have broken my oaths like you have done."

The boy laughed. It was sing song and sweet. How could someone with such a pleasant laugh have murdered so many of his friends and brothers? How?

"Really? What was Gilly then? Was she you sticking by your oaths?"

How could he know about Gilly? How was that possible? How were there so many questions that weren't being answered?

"Stop playing with the boy, Satin."

Another figure stepped out into the clearing. It was a woman, dressed all in white, with beautiful blond hair that fell below her waist. He recognised her. How could he forget? She was Val, who the Baratheon men had labelled as being the Wildling Princess. For once, however, it was not the attractive woman who caught his eye first, but the snow-white direwolf who stalked behind her. Then red eyes seemed out of place amongst the sea of icy blue.

"Gh- Ghost? Is that you?"

He moved forward towards the direwolf, who snarled at him, and caused him to fall backwards. Ghost had never behaved like that towards him. He had always acted well towards him. Maybe he could not be like that now that Jon was no longer alive to control him. Had he gone feral and wild with the grief of losing his master?

"You must be feeling so many emotions right now, Sam Tarly. You have seen all your friends dead. They were not strong enough to stand up to us. They paid in blood for the murder of Jon Snow. Now they will serve the winter forever more. The swords that guard the realm of men will become the swords who destroy it. How fitting."

He backed up from her and Ghost as she walked closer to him. There was a coldness in her expression, and her eyes had gone to become a faint blue. She was not the same as the other wights, but she was somehow no longer human.

"Why would you do this? The Watch- "

"The Night's Watch gave my people to the cold winter winds over and over. Your Lord Commanders showed no love for those of us born north of the Wall. Do not feel honour over their follies now that the cold winds of winter have finally come for you and your own, Sam Tarly. I saw everything that will happen in my dreams. I saw your friends crying for their lives. I saw them drive the knife into Jon Snow's heart. I saw your Wall crumbling apart before the torrent of the dead. I saw it, so it must become true. He showed me it. The raven with the three eyes."

That sounded familiar to Sam, but he could not remember how, or where he had heard it from before. Dreams that became the truth? Was she the same as Howland Reed?

"Did- Did you burn Jon? Did you spare him from this endless life in death?"

She laughed.

"I am afraid not, Sam Tarly. The walking dead have risen, and they will march south. Can you guess who will lead them?"

"No. No. No. He would never. He would- "

"Quiet yourself, Sam."

His head snapped back as he heard the voice, and tears came into his eyes as he saw the man stood behind him. Those dark locks that Pyp and Grenn had teased him for. That long, sombre face. The eyes had been full of emotion once, but now they were bright blue. His face had frosted over, and it looked like he had become half-man and half-Other. Jon.

He stalked into the clearing, and kneeled before Ghost, who nuzzled at his hand. Sam watched as Jon rose to his feet and stared into the eyes of Val, before turning to Satin.

"You did well. Bloodraven truly did send you to me, boy"

"Thank you. Thank you, my Lor- "

Satin never finished that sentence. He found Longclaw buried deep in his stomach before he could, with Jon looking down at him. He turned back to Sam, as Satin dropped to the cold, hard floor. He was lifeless, and there was no mercy in Jon's cold eyes.

"He had served his final purpose. He will join my army now."

Jon raised one of his arms, and so too did Satin rise. He still looked lifeless, with his body limp. She shrugged off the cloak and limped over to the hoards of the rest of the dead. His eyes had changed. They had been so enchanting before, but now they were that same, unnatural blue as the rest of them.

"You aren't Jon. You can't be. The Jon I knew would never do this to his friends. Grenn and Pyp. Edd. Clydas and Hobb. You killed them all, but you aren't really Jon. Not the proper Jon."

"The Jon Snow you knew is dead, Sam. He died the moment that his brother's plunged daggers into his heart. He was reborn as me. I see the truth. I know what has happened and what must happen again. I see everything that has been, and everything that will be. Grenn and Pyp were always destined to die, Sam. All men are. They die so that the world can progress and yet everything remains the same."

Jon Walked to the weirwood and ran his hands down it. His movements weren't as jalted as the others. They seemed almost normal, but with an otherworldliness sort of feel to them.

"Do you think the high lords would have cared if Grenn gave his life for them? I will make them care. I will see Westeros burned and destroyed, and in that destruction the fires of progress shall be born. No more kings who rule unchecked. No more oaths that bind men for life. I will kill rapers and murder traitors. I will make this world better for all, including bastards. You are like me, Sam. You have felt an outsider your entire life. You were never loved by your father. Mine abandoned me for the Wall, after raping my mother to her grave. We are not unlike, Sam Tarly."

Jon turned to him. There seemed to be a fire in his icy cold eyes.

"Join me and embrace what must be. We will change this world for the better."

"Not like this, Jon. Not like this. Not by the murder of your friends. Pypar did not kill you. Grenn did not kill you. You don't have to make change like this."

Jon looked away from Sam and placed his hand on the wolf head hilt of Longclaw, which he wore on his belt. There was the sullen, stubborn look that Sam had grown to love. He remembered how despondent he had felt when he had heard Jon was dead, and how he had been willing to do anything to bring him back. But not like this.

"Val told me you would say something like that. You are wrong, Sam. This is the only way. Change must happen."

Jon walked to him and knelt beside him. Sam hadn't seen him draw Longclaw, but he felt the Valyrian steel pierce his stomach. He felt the cold rushing over him, and the weakness take over his body. Was this how it was always going to have ended? Murdered by the twisted wraith of his closest friend?

"I respect you, Sam. The others pleaded to be spared. They screamed and wailed. You leave this world with honour. You are a braver man than you ever knew. I will honour you, Sam, and leave you dead to rest in peace."

Sam felt those words inside him. It was almost as if Jon himself wasn't speaking them. The coldness had overrun him now, and he could not move. His vision was starting to blur. There was almost nothing. He could hear something. Something far away was roaring. He saw the face in the weirwood, as if it was glowing. He saw Jon look to Val. He heard the roaring more. The Wall. He knew that. He knew it was the Wall.

As he went towards the light, he knew that, somewhere, the Wall was falling.

Jon. How could you do this?

The roaring stopped.

The Wall had fallen.

 _*Woah. Wow. I don't even know if I should be writing this right now. Just... Wow. So, that gives an answer to everyone who was wondering where Jon was. Hope it makes you happy, though it probably won't. So, this is the end of the second act of the story. What an act it's been right? Some pretty big deaths of good characters (Sansa, Sam, Mace), and some ends for baddies (Roose, Qyburn, Cersei). What was your favourite part? Where do you think this should go next? Will Asha actually ever appear again? Find out next time! Aeron kicks us off for Act 3, so stay tuned for that.*_


	88. The Faithless Prisoner

Aeron was a broken man. He looked down at the broiling waves and wondered where it had all gone wrong. How had he come to this? Why had his god forsaken him in this way? What had he done to deserve this punishment? What had Euron ever done to be risen up on such a pedestal? Was he as godly as he claimed to be? Was this his reward for the way that he lived his life? Surely no god would celebrate Euron for his kinslaying and mass waves of murder to suit his goals.

Maybe that was the answer. Maybe there just was no god watching them. Maybe there was nobody rewarding them for their actions, and punishing them for their crimes. Was that the only explanation. Had he been wrong for so many years of his life?

He looked around the Silence at the mutes working away at the ship. Most of them were pale boys. Two of them were Euron's own bastards. He had torn their tongues out himself. That was how callous Aeron's brother could be. The Red Oarsman stood at the helm, whilst Left hand Lucas Codd called out instructions to the crew. His eyes were glazed over, and he looked empty. There was something strange about him. It was like he was becoming more and more controlled by Euron as the days passed.

What euron did was unnatural. These people should despise him for what he had done to them. He had torn out their tongues and forced them into slavery. Yet they did not ris up against him. They allowed him to rule over them, despite the horrors that lay in his past. Why? What control did he heave over them?

Euron's ship was made of a mix of dark and white wood. It looked strange. Not many ships were like this, and none of the Iron Fleet. Weirwoods did not grow on the Iron Islands. The soil was too shallow for their roots to dig in. That was what Aeron's father had always told him.

He turned then, and saw Maester Wendamyr scurrying across the deck of the ship. The Maester had not found his sea legs yet. The Drowned God did not favour him, and he spent most of his time below deck, save for when he wished to be sick over the rail, or for whenever Euron called him above decks. He enjoyed making mockery of the robed man.

Aeron had never trusted maesters. It had been one of thei9r number who had let Urrigon die. He had paid for that, of course, but he had still failed in his duty. Balon had punished him. Had Wendamyr been on the Iron Islands by then? No, he had come much later.

"You're wanted below deck, Damphair."

The maester had scurried over to him, and was gone before Aeron could answer. He was busying emptying himself of vomit over the ship's rail. It was pathetic. How long had this man been at Pyke, and yet he did not know how to survive on board a ship? This was a man that Balon had trusted with all his plans and secrets. How could his brother have put so much faith in such a weak man? Balon was usually a good judge of character.

He slid down below the decks then. It did not do any good to keep Euron waiting when he called for you. He could feel Lucas Codd's eyes on him as he did, yet it felt more like two people were watching him. It was strange.

The silence below decks was as quiet as it was above. There were a few mutes down here, cleaning the floors and the walls, and then there were the prisons further along, where Euron kept all his captives. The seawater entered some of the cells when the ship swayed, entering the wounds of the occupants. They knew better than to scream, though. Euron would have them punished more if they did.

There was a series of cells that he had to pass on the way. There was a cell full of thin, bald men, with the same blue lips as Euron. They whimpered as he passed, and one of them wailed. He would be punished later for that. It was more of a screech than a wail. Maybe that was all that he could manage without a tongue.

The next cell contained a woman, dressed in a green dress. She was slumped in the corner, though her cell was one of the nicer ones. The floor was dry, at least. Her skin would be safe from the harsh saltwater. Her eyes seemed empty, but they were full of life when their eyes met. It was like she had been looking somewhere else until she realised he was there. He averted his gaze as he walked past her. There was something creepy about her manner.

The next cell held a naked man. He was an old man, covered in wrinkles and grey hairs. There was a set of grey robes thrown in the corner, but the old man was chained down and could not move. His cell was dry, too. Clearly Euron wanted this man alive. Why? What purpose did this man serve?

The next door was the entrance to Euron's chambers. This was where the heart of the Silence beats. Euron resided here, and he very rarely left. He had never been as much of a sailor as Victarion or Balon. He had always preferred the books. The door was made of pale wood, with red ripples running through it. It stood out in the dark corridor. It was ominous and foreboding. How Aeron despised these trips to see his brother. That was why his god had forsaken him. His cowardice was enough to show that he had betrayed the old way of the Ironborn. Maybe Euron was right. Maybe he was the most holy man on this ship. He pushed open the door.

His brother was stood with his back to the door. He wasn't wearing his eyepatch. He was, however, wearing a black cloak with fur trim. There was a slight hunch to his stance, and his hands were clasped on the edge of the table.

"He hasn't shown me. I don't know where he is. Or the girl. She escaped. No, the sea is too broad. Looking for her would take too long. She is running. She is as much a coward as the priest. He's here? Very well."

Euron coughed, and then reached out for the eye patch, which was placed on the desk. He Put it on, and then turned to Aeron, a thin smile on his face, but a seething anger in his one visible eye. The good eye. The other one was hidden. That was the best way. Euron could see things with the other eye. Scary things.

"You entered quietly, brother. Silence is only a name. I did not take your tongue, as I like your voice. I like the way you tell me how unholy I am. How has your god been treating you the last few days?"

Aeron didn't know how to respond to that. Had Euron known that he had been doubting his faith the last few days? How could he have? How did Euron always know everything about him before he knew it himself? It wasn't possible.

"I'll take that look of fear in your eyes as proof that you think he has abandoned you. Good, brother. That means you are ready for the next step. That means that your mind comes closer to being unlocked."

His brother moved across the cabin to a cabinet in the corner. From it he pulled out a vial. It contained a blue liquid. Aeron knew it well. He had drunk more than his share of this under the orders of his brother. That was what had stained his lips blue. He brought the vial over to him, and placed it on the table next to him.

"This time will be different, brother. I want you to look for our family. Look for Balon and Victarion. Look for Asha. Look for Theon. Find them for me."

Aeron's hands were shaking as he took control of the vial. Why was that6? Was he not used to this process now? Was he not used to the visions that he would see when he drunk from it? Was he scared at the taste that this drink would give him. The taste of Euron's seed travelling down his throat, as it had done when they were children.

That was what he felt on his tongue as he drank it. He tasted the saltiness and the slimy texture. He looked to Euron, who was smiling. He knew. He always knew. How could he know? Then the visions started.

He saw a mighty wall of ice falling, and before it stood a white wolf-man, fashioned of ice. In one hand he carried a sword of shining light, and in the other was a blue flower. Then he saw a merman swimming through the waves, before the waves became fire, and the merman burned, and screamed as he did. Then he saw Euron, menacing and clad in a Valyrian steel suit of armour. He gritted his teeth together as he looked at Aeron.

"Concentrate, brother. Control the dreams. Look for our brothers. Look for Balon's children. Find them."

He looked for Balon first, but saw only darkness. There was a hooded man in a grey cloak, but he did not show his face. Then he looked for Victarion, but he sensed that his brother's fire had gone out. He looked for Urrigon last, even though he already knew what he would see and hear. The creak of the door. The cream of the hinge. The signal that he was here.

Urrigon would always be taken first. That was Euron's way. Then it would be his turn. His turn to face Euron's wrath. He would weep as he watched Urrigon on his knees, and Urri would weep when he saw Euron move on. They loved each other as brothers, but this was horrendous. This was torture, and nobody could ever know.

"Control it. Do you enjoy seeing this, brother? I did not ask you to look here. Control it. Show me the boy and the girl. Show me Theon and Asha."

He tried to control himself, and he put a picture of Asha into his mind. That was easier. He knew her face better. Theon had spent too long away from the Iron Islands. He was not as much born of the Old Way as Asha was. She was truly Balon's daughter. She should have been queen.

He saw her. She was on board a ship. They were travelling south. There was an old man with her, who carried a scythe, and another, a boy. He wore the colours of House Botley. He could see nothing near the ship. Nothing but open ocean.

Then he looked for Theon, but he proved harder to find. He was surrounded by walls of stone, and stone men, too, with dead eyes staring down at him, judging. An army of the dead. There was a light nearby, and the boy was looking for it, but he could not find it. There was a woman there with him. She was beautiful but terrifying, all at once. Her hair was short, but red, and her eyes were burning. There was power there. This power was not the same as Euron's. This was centuries old. It had seen civilizations burn. It had caused them to burn. He could sense all that, just by looking in her eyes.

"Yes. Yes. Where is he? Show me. Tell me! The boy is the key! Tell me!"

He clicked his neck. No. He had to be brave. His god had forsaken him for his cowardice. Euron had taken everything that he valued from him. His brothers. His god. His dignity. He would not allow him to win here. He would not allow it. He would defy him. He did not care if he would be punished for it.

Theon and the red woman were replaced by more aimless visions. He saw a massacre occurring on a rainy coastline, with the sea broiling. He saw two dragons, their tails twisted together, whilst another flew overhead, it's scales black, not red. He saw a dark star falling from the sky, and crashing in some red mountains.

Then he saw darkness.

He awoke later, in dim light. He was belowdecks, but this was not Euron's cabin. This was one of the cells. The floor was dry, so he was not in with the shrieking men with the blue lips. Was he with the elderly man?

"Aeron Damphair. I have been expecting you."

He looked around. Who had said that? Just then, the woman appeared from the shadows in the corner of the cabin. The woman was naked now. The green dress she had worn before was laid on the cell floor, ripped and shredded. Her bussom was small, and her waist, too. Her eyes were queer. Something about her had scared him before, he remembered. Was it that? Was it the way that she looked at him?

"Who- Who are you? How long have I been here? Why are you naked?"

"That is three questions, Damphair. I require answers from you, if you desire answers from me. Which of them would you have me answer?"

She spoke with such eloquence and sophistication that he wondered whether she knew she was a prisoner of the most despicable man on the seas of this world.

"The second."

"Very well. You have been on the floor for half a day. It is night now. Most of the crew sleep."

"Most?"

The woman turned away from him, but he got the impression that she was laughing at him.

"It is my question. What did you see when you were fed Shade of the Evening?"

He tried to remember. His visions were always blurry after they happened. He did not wish to tell this woman about Urrigon.

"I saw my niece and my nephew. Who are you?"

The woman turned back to him.

"My name is Malora Hightower. They called me the Mad Maid before, though I regret to say that half that nickname is no longer applicable."

Malora Hightower? Why was she a prisoner of his brother? He had heard tale of the mad daughter of the Lord of Oldtown. She consorted with warlocks and sorcerers, and read books of the occult that she took from the Citadel.

"Did you tell your brother where he could find your nephew?"

"I- I did not. I defied him. I remember that.

Malora arched one of her eyebrows at him. Clearly she had not taken him as the kind to stand up to Euron. She had seen him as weak. The whole world saw him as weak.

"Why are you naked?"

"A present for you, I think. Your brother hasn't touched me, nor will he allow his men to touch me. He had them strip me and then threw you in here. I am your reward. If you would take me then do it quickly."

He shook his head.

"I- I took a vow. When I gave my life to the Drowned God. I put the drunken, debauched life behind me. I need my strength and my faith now more than ever."

Malora smiled and nodded her head.

"That was what I hoped for. You have a role yet to play, Damphair. You will need your God more than ever, when the time comes. You will know what to do. The horn must be blown. Your brother comes."

She returned to the dark corner, and then Eurojn appeared by the cell bars. He licked his stained blue lips, and unlocked the door, before stepping inside. He ran his fingers down a board of pale wood, and shuddered slightly.

"I know that you saw them, brother. I know that you know where Balon's children are. Tell me and you will be spared. I will send you on a ship back to your precious Islands. I will allow you to go back to your brothers in serving your God. Tell me and you may go."

His brothers? Euron was his brother. All his other brothers were dead. Balon had died on that bridge. Euron had killed him, even if he said that he didn't. Victarion was dead. Urrigon… Urrigon had died, and it was all his fault. He had murdered his brother. He had spent his whole life blaming the maester that did it, but he had been wrong. The maester hadn't murdered his brother. He had.

"I have something to show you, brother. Something that I found. Come. Follow me."

Euron left, and Aeron hobbled after his brother. He was curious what Euron was going to give him. His brother was not a generous man. He hoped it wasn't his seed, though that had stopped when he became a man. Euron had only liked him like that when he had been a child.

When he stepped into the cabin after his brother, he found the Red Oarsman, Lucas Codd and Rodrik Harlaw all gathered. There was also a man sat in a simple chair. He was dressed in grey robes. It had to be Wendamyr, the Maester. Why were all these people gathered here? Rodrik was captaining one of the other ships, so he must have been rowed over.

"Look what I got you, brother. The maester. He isn't quite who he says he is, though."

Aeron stepped further into the room, and saw that the man was nailed to the chair. There were two large nails in his hands, buried deep. He was whimpering, and his face was stained with his tears. Harlaw could barely look at him, and was instead looking to the floor. The red Oarsman and Lucas Codd had the same impressionless faces that they always seemed to have nowadays.

"Tell him what you told me. Tell him."

The maester whimpered, and moved his gaze away from Euron, who grabbed him by the chin and pulled his head up so their eyes met, and the man whimpered again. Then he nodded.

"I- I knew a man at the Citadel. He- He was sent here. To Pyke. Your brother killed him. He made him suffer pain. He was my friend. I made sure that I came here. I killed the previous maester, Qalen. I replaced him, and then I waited."

Euron stalked the room, never taking his eyes off the maester. What was the man saying? He was friends with the maester who had sewed up Urri's fingers wrong? What did he mean that he waited?

"Balon was dying already. He- He was ill during his last few days. He didn't want to die like that. He wanted to die a hero. He came up with the idea. He'd stand on the bridge and make it look like he died fighting the Storm God. He thought that would lead the Ironborn to carry on fighting."

That took a couple of second to sink in. Then it did, and he looked to Euron, who glared at the maester.

"You- He- You killed Balon. I-"

"I didn't really kill him. He asked me-"

The maester then slumped forwards, a knife buried in his throat. Blood started to dribble down his cloaks. Aeron started to breathe faster, and then he dropped to the floor. He looked up and saw Euron's smiling eye, and wicked grin.

"Now, tell us where the boy and the girl are."


	89. Jaime IV

He looked upon the skeleton of the city from afar. He had wandered its streets and halls after he returned. After he had killed Cersei. He pictured the King's Landing that he used to know. There was the bustle of the market. The sombre atmosphere of the Great Sept of Baelor. The port, which was a hive of scum and villainy, full of the worst criminals that the city had to offer, most of them in the employ of Petyr Baelish. He even missed his rooms in the White Sword Tower. He had found the building destroyed. Most of the Red Keep had been badly damaged. The Great Hall was the best preserved. The Iron Throne had survived, at least.

Now the city was surrounded by two armies. They both flew the banners of the Targaryens. He knew what would happen if he presented himself to either of them, but it was becoming more and more necessary. He had been spying on them for days now. One of him or Clegane or Harwin was always watching them. Just in case.

It had been Clegane that had been watching this morning, when some new ships arrived. A small group had landed on the bay, and had presented themselves before the dragon queen. She was the daughter of the Mad King. Aerys.

The party had included four prisoners, all kept in shackles. They were all strangers to him. It was the person presenting them that had taken Clegane's interest, and then he had brought him over. Jaime had found what he saw very surprising. He had taken the lead from that moment onwards. He had seen his brother. He would recognise him anywhere. The shortest man in the Seven Kingdoms, but with such a large shadow. That was the man that killed his father.

Jaime turned then, as he felt a hand on his shoulder. He found Harwin, Clegane, and Lothor Brune waiting.

"Mya and Gendry are getting our bags packed so that we can go, Lannister. Are you sure this is what you want?"

"It's the only way, Clegane. Whatever happens, there is no other choice. My brother is there. I have to see him. I have to tell him what happened to Cersei, and Tommen, and Myrcella. I have to tell him the full truth about his wife. I know where she is and he has to know."

The large man nodded his head slightly, to indicate that Jaime had his approval. Sandor had been there for the Sack of King's Landing. His brother had murdered Elia Martell. He was just much at risk by walking into the dragon's lair. By the end of the day they might both be dead. That was just a risk that they had to take. There was no other choice.

"Go get the prisoners, Brune. The septon and Ser Steffon. They are both highborn, even given how pathetic Steffon is. They might be of use to us."

Lothor Brune scowled, but left. He did not like receiving orders from a Lannister. He remembered Brune vaguely from before he was given a knighthood, a bitter but honest man turned away by his family. Had had little concern for the man, and had never held any care for him from before. There were few that he did.

He had strangled the life from his own sister. His one love in this life. He had killed her. It had been just. Was this how Ned Stark had felt every time his godforsaken honour had caused pain? Had he been forced to live with this guilt? If so, then Ser Ilyn's blade may have been more a blessing to him than it first seemed.

He was brought back to thinking about Ilyn Payne then. He had not seen the man since Brienne had spirited away from his own army. He had heard that the Riverlords had set upon the troops, and that his cousin, Daven, had been amongst the slain. There had been no word on whether Ilyn or Peck had survived. Both were Lannister men from Western houses, but neither were significant enough for people to know who they were, or what their fate had been. The tongueless knight had been a tortured soul. Death may have been a reprieve for him, but Peck had been so young. He hoped that boy was not dead.

Brune returned then, along with the bastard girl, the blacksmith's boy, and the two prisoners. Steffon Swyft wept himself to sleep most nights. The man was more an eater than a fighter. The septon was a thin man dressed in the base garb of the sparrows. His face had wrinkled from age. He was a son of Walder Frey, and the weak, weaselly chin could be seen in him. He had left the city with Qyburn on a mission to Casterly Rock. There had been another septon, but he had been braver and attempted to flee. The Hound had seen to him.

"Are we ready?"

The Hound nodded, and Harwin turned to look at Gendry. This one was only putting up with his presence. He did not like him. He was of the North. The North Remembers. Isn't that what they kept saying? The entire real remembers, and chooses to ignore information that doesn't suit them. They remember him for murdering the Mad King, but forget just how mad he was.

The batard and the blacksmith walked at the back of the group, whilst Clegane watched over the two prisoners. Lothor walked on his own, ocassionally looking back to the blacksmith and glaring at him. He was intimate with the girl almost every night, and found himself to be jealous of the boy. He was strong and well-built. A girl could fall for him. He reminded him of Robert, before he had gotten old and fat. Maybe there was some Stark girl that this one loved. That left him walking at the head of the group with Harwin. Needless to say, they walked in silence.

The city was burned rubble. It was a skeleton of what it had once been. The hustle and bustle had been replaced by a solemnity and sombre nature. There were two armies here, but it was still as silent as the tomb. Guards were stationed around the camps, and they made an approach towards them. Spears were lowered, and their group stopped. A man stepped forwards.

"Who approaches? Name yourself."

"This is the Fellowship. Who do we approach?"

The knight scowled, and drew his steel.

"My name is Ser Hugo Bolling. I am a sworn brother of the Kingsguard, in service to King Aegon Targaryen, the sixth of his name. I ask you again, who approaches."

"There are many of us. Would you like all of our names? In what sequence? In alphabetical order? Oldest to youngest?"

"Do you mock me, peasant? I shall show you what it means to fight with a knight of the Kingsguard!"

He gestures the steel towards Jaime, and his spearmen fan out. Harwin, Clegane and Lothor all went for their swords. Gendry went for the hammer that he had strapped to his back. He was going to get himself killed before he even told them who he was. Imagine how they would react when they found out that he was a Lannister.

"We do not want a fight, Ser. Not yet, anyway. My friends are Sandor Clegane, Lothor Brune, Harwin and Gendry. They are all knights. My name is Ser Jaime Lannister. You may have heard of me."

The Kingsguard knight bristled at that. The news did not seem to sway him away from the fight. It would hardly be a good introduction if the first thing that this king heard of him was the death of one of his chosen knights.

"You truly have great courage if you come here, Kingslayer. The man in that castle is the grandson of the king you stabbed in the back. You think he will be merciful to you?"

"It is not mercy I come here to seek. Merely the truth. Me and my friends just wish to talk with your king and share the information that we know."

Bolling looked unsure at that. He bit his lip, and then gestured to one of the soldiers.

"You. Go to the castle and get the King's Hand. I want him to make the decision on what happens here."

What followed was an unstable silence, with Clegane, Brune, and Harwin all still holding their swords. The spearmen were the same, directing their weapons at his group.

The soldier returned soon, with a grim-faced, fiery haired man. Jaime recognised him. Age had not served Jon Connington well. He was wrinkled and hardened. When he had been a youth he had been more in touch with his feelings, but this was clearly not the case now. His face was one of stone, with more worry lines on his forehead than years he had been away.

"Ser Kingslayer, this truly is a brazen move of you to come here. Do you wish to atone for your crimes by giving your life to the true king? Only life can pay for life. You brought a Clegane with you, too. There will be plenty of justice for my king's dead kin today. Bring the Kingslayer and the Clegane to the castle. Our King and the dragon queen will want to see them."

Four of the men rushed forward for each of them. Clegane shrugged off his handlers, and Jaime just moved forwards, but was flanked by the Targaryen men that Connington had sent forwards. Bolling moved to follow them, but Connington waved him away, without even speaking a word. He commanded more authority here than he ever had as Hand of the King to Aerys. There was an air of Jaime's father about him now.

The walk through the city was a strange one. Most of the army was camped outside, and the city was nearly empty, aside for patrols and a couple of civillians who had clearly survived the fire somehow. Maybe they had been outside the city at the time, or had found some place to cower. Most of these people here would have lost their family in the flames that his sister had created. How they would hate his family.

The gates to the Red Keep were already open, and the courtyard was busier than the city. He saw a couple of knights training, but the main attraction was the young boy stood in the centre of the courtyard, wearing a crown upon his head. He was slender and strong. He reminded Jaime of a young Rhaegar Targaryen, if less beautiful than Rhaegar. Connington went down on one knee before the boy. This one was clearly the boy king that he had heard so much about.

"Get on your knee, Kingslayer."

One of the guards forced him down to his knee. He found Clegane alongside him.

"So this is the famous Ser Jaime Lannister, the man who murdered my grandfather. Why have you come here, Lannister?"

"You do not call me Kingslayer. Maybe you already know why I am here. I'm here to share with you the truth. The truth about me and your grandfather. He wanted to burn down this city. He was mad. He called for me to murder my own father and condone the murder of all the people who lived here. I killed him to stop that. I killed my sister because she did this. You can kill me for that if you want, or murder my companion for crimes committed by his family, but what kind of a king does that make you?"

He looked up at the boy king, who himself looked around the crowd. He would know these people that Jaime did not. He needed to command their respect.

"Ser Jaime?"

He recognised that voice. It was an honest and naïve, but maybe more hardened than it had been the last time that he had heard it. Could it be? How had she got here? He turned his head, and saw Brienne striding across the courtyard. She was dressed in white armour and had a white cloak flowing from her back. Could she be-?

"You know this man, Lady Brienne?"

"I do, your grace. He is a good man. He has saved my life more than once. I have saved his before, as well. Why is he here?"

Aegon looked down at him then. There was a knowing smile on his face. He really did remind Jaime of Rhaegar. The Crown Prince had always seemed like there was some joke that only he knew. It hadn't been in an obnoxious manner, just a truth that you had to accept when dealing with him.

"He claims to be here to share the truth. I trust that he will be safe in your care, my Lady. Take him to the nicer cells and see that he is locked away until I have had time to think on this. The Clegane is pardoned. I have no quarrel with him. Invite the rest of his group up here. We will see what they have to say about Ser Jaime."

Brienne offered him a hand, and helped him to his feet. He followed her then, into the dungeons of the castle. They had been largely untouched by the fire. She found him a cell with more sunlight than the others, and then pulled a stool to outside his door, and sat, staring at him. This was how they where for a few seconds. Then she started to speak.

"You were foolish coming here. You did not know what kind of person Aegon was. He could have easily killed you on the spot. Sandor Clegane too."

"He could have. He didn't. Do you think he will pardon me?"

Brienne thought for a few second before giving her answer.

"He is reasonable, but Jon Connington is a stubborn man. If he believes you guilty then his opinion won't change. That is the way that he is. Then there is the other dragon to be concerned with. She is more Aerys than Rhaegar, I think."

"The last thing this Kingdom needs is another Aerys. Mind you, there isn't anybody left for him to kill. What damage could he possibly do that my sister hasn't already done?"

The silence resumed, and Jaime looked down to the ground. His stump ached, but not as much as it had when it had first been removed. Brienne had seen his pain first hand. She knew how he had felt better than any man in this kingdom. Cersei had disparaged her, but Brienne was a better person than Cersei ever had been.

"I killed her Brienne. I laid over her and I put my hands around her throat- I strangled the life from her. I killed my own blood. I killed the woman who I had loved for most of my entire life, and I wished that I had done it many years before. Maybe I could have saved all these people. Maybe I should have. I killed Aerys Targaryen because I knew what he was willing to do. I should have seen that in Cersei. I should have stopped her before it was too late. I am to blame for the deaths of all these people."

Brienne rose then, and entered the cage. She put her hand on his shoulder.

"Do you remember that day at Harrenhal, Ser Jaime? I listened to what you said. I learned. You were the man that I most despised, but that was before I knew you. I heard what you did and I learned to love you. You saved my life, and I saved yours."

"Are you going to save me again? The dragons will kill me for what I did. I'm a Lannister. My father ordered the sack of this city. I killed the boy's grandfather."

"For good reason. He will understand once you tell him that. He is reasonable. He took me in when I had nowhere to go. He gave me a place on his Kingsguard."

Jaime shook his head, and looked to he ground.

"You haven't murdered any members of his family. Do you see him as Renly Baratheon reborn? Do you love him?"

Brienne looked at him, and then turned away, but she didn't leave. He didn't want her to leave. He wanted her to stay by his side.

"I loved one woman all my life. My sister. Does that disgust you? When we were together I felt whole. I felt empty and alone when we were apart. Killing her- Killing her was sentencing myself to a life of pain, suffering and a lack of love."

"That is the price that we pay. We are of the Kingsguard. We swear to live a life without love. A life alone and serving a king who we have to believe in. I may love you, Jaime, but I cannot. My life ios dedicated to my white cloak."

She turned back to him, and knelt before him. There was sadness in her eyes. Was there sadness in his, too. He couldn't see it, but he could feel his heart being torn apart somewhere inside.

"I know the person that you are inside. I know how you can be a good person. Aegon will know that, too. We cannot be together. That is the oath that I have sworn. That is the oath that you swore to Aerys Targaryen and then to Robert Baratheon."

"An oath that I broke once already."

Brienne didn't respond to that, but moved her lips to his forehead, and kissed it gently. Her lips lingered. He wished that she would move them down to his, but she didn't, and instead she just pulled away. She went to the door, and held onto the bars for a few seconds, before opening the gate.

"I am sorry, Jaime. This is the way that life has to be. My love does not matter. My oath is my life from now on."

He closed his own eyes and nodded.

"Then now my watch begins. My oath is broken and my family is dead. I shall live my life without love. Should I go to the Wall? Your king will certainly never take me on to his Kingsguard. They will never accept me here. There is nothing for me here."

"I would not exactly say nothing. Nor would I say that your family is all dead. I think that is quite untrue."

That was not Brienne's voice. He looked up, and saw the face of his younger brother at the bars of the cell. He was still without his nose, and still with those mismatched eyes. His hair was messy, and there was the early stubble of a beard upon his chin. There was no smile on his face, and instead wore a frown. Behind him was stood a blond haired man, with cruel burn marks on his neck.

"I did not expect to see you here, Jaime. I thought you were dead. Killed in the fire that our sister started, or died fighting somewhere. That would be fitting for you."

"I thought you would be dead, too. The gods curse a kinslayer. That's what they say, is it not?"

"It is, and that means that we are both cursed, I suppose. And yet here we both are. Two men without honour, and yet many men with honour are now dead. How do we outlive these people if we are as cursed as the realm thinks."

"The luck of the lion, maybe."

Tyrion chuckled slightly, and the taller man readjusted himself.

"Some luck. Our father is dead. Our sister is dead. Uncle Kevan and cousin Lancel, too. The legacy that our father so desired is ruined. His two surviving children. Traitors to the realm. I have a gift for you."

The taller man stepped forward, and looked down on Jaime. There was something familiar about him at least. He wasn't sure how, though.

"This, brother, is our uncle, Ser Gerion Lannister. Do you remember him? He survived. He saved her. He saved Tysha."

Uncle Gerion? He had disappeared many years before. He had sailed to the ruins of Valyria, to look for Brightroar, their family's valyrian steel sword. His father had always believed it folly, and that Gerion was dead. How could he have survived? Did he have the blade? Why was he so badly burned?

"That is not the gift. I am not the gift. Gerion, give me the sword."

The man unstrapped the sword that he was wearing at his belt, and handed it to Tyrion. His little brother waddled into the room, slowly. He offered the sword to him. The pommel was a lion head with ruby eyes. The steel was rippled with red and golf. It was valyrian steel.

"Widow's Wail. This was Joffrey's sword."

He looked up at Tyrion, who was looking up at him. He closed his eyes and nodded. When he opened them again there was sadness in his eyes.

"After Joffrey died it passed to Tommen, then Myrcella. We found it in the ruins. The wildfire didn't destroy it. It is yours now. I would suggest that you rename it."

Jaime looked down at the sword for a few seconds. When he looked up, he saw that Tyrion was staring at him.

"I forgive you for what you did, Jaime. I forgive you for killing Cersei. I forgive you for Tysha. I want you to know… I didn't kill Joffrey. I didn't do it. I don't know who did it. It wasn't me."

"I know, Tyrion. You hated Joffrey. I was never a father to him. Cersei was never a proper mother. We ruined that poor boy. We caused his madness. Whoever killed him… I do not blame them. He would have destroyed the realm."

Tyrion nodded, and then walked to the edge of the cell, to the door.

"The dragon rulers will be united. Your septon has agreed to wed them together in return for his freedom. After that, Daenerys will come to see you. I intend to speak with her about you being spared. She is not easily persuaded. I will do my best."

Tyrion made to move for the cell door. He made to leave.

"Kingslayer."

He found the words leaving his mouth without even thinking. Tyrion turned to look at him, a quizzical look in his eyes.

"I name this sword Kingslayer. A wise man once told me that I should take the words they use to diminish me and make arour out of them. instead I make this sword."

Tyrion smiled at him, and nodded.

"It's a good name. The realm will be quaking in their boots. Good luck, brother."

Tyrion and his supporter left, and then Jaime was left alone in his cell. He was a prisoner again, as he had been to Robb Stark. Then it had been the wolf. Now it was the dragon.

 _*Hey there again. This is yet another author note. We are now two chapters into Act 3. That's pretty exciting for me. I just wanted to update and give a general feel of what can be expected in this act. There will be plenty of reunions, as this chapter demonstrated, and some big characters meeting for the first time. Daenerys and Jaime, maybe soon. I hope that this act will answer most of the leftover questions and tie everything up with a neat (maybe not) bow. I hope you all enjoyed this chapter and the discussions it contained, and remember to provide feedback and stuff like that, so I can know all about how best to please readeras. Thanks!*_


	90. Arthor VI

Arthor found himself on a horse once again, and once again he was joined by Marlon Manderly, Abel, and Aegor Stane, who was now dressed in white armour of the Kingsguard, fashioned by the armourer's apprentice at Castle Cerwyn, as the senior blacksmith had gone south with Robb Stark. He was dead now, probably. The boy had been rangy, but with thick arms, and still young. He had come from Castle Cerwyn to Winterfell with them, as the Winterfell blacksmith had died long ago, and the Bolton smith had been one of those killed in their last stand in the Godswood. The boy would fight for Stannis now

The North had united behind the one true. The mountain clans had been joined by the Mormonts and the Glovers first, then the Tallharts had sent some men, and Wyman Manderly had brought the Lockes, Woolfields, and Hornwoods with him. The Ryswells had bent the knee after Roose Bolton was murdered, and the Umbers had been reunited together. News had come from the south that the Greatjon was at Riverrun and was preparing to ride to them shortly. He was lucky. Most of the Northmen who had ridden south had never come back.

"We should be getting close. Bartimus said it wasn't too far west. I don't know why we couldn't have just kept him with us."

That was Marlon Manderly. He was nominally in charge of this operation, though that was just Stannis allowing Wyman to feel like he was important in some regards. They were recovering Rickon Stark for Stannis, so that he could be named Lord of Winterfell and the North would be properly secured.

"For when I am gone the singing will fade, and the silence shall last long and long."

Abel was singing his song, which was about the last of the giants. It would have meant nothing to him before. He had never believed in the stories of the Others, or the Children of the Forest, or even the giants, but he had heard the stories that Stannis' knights told over the fires. The dead were walking, and the Others were coming. If that was true, then why couldn't giants also exist.

"Are you going to stay silent from now? The hound pack are still adventuring through these lands. We don't want them to set upon us. The bastard of Bolton rides with them."

As he said that they heard howling coming from nearby. The party stopped. Manderly looked around and moved his hand to his sword. He pointed to the sky.

"Smoke. Someone is nearby. The bastard, maybe. Stane, go and scout ahead. You're the smallest. Go on foot. Go and find out if you can find what happened. When you return we will carry on. Go!"

Stane dismounted his horse and began his way into the forest. He was away from sight after only a couple of seconds. The woods here were thick. It wasn't the Wolfswood, but the North never made its landscape easy to traverse. Everyone here was of the North, however.

"If we met the bastard then we should be able to kill him. There's four of us, and all his friends are either dead or surrendered. Its just him and his dogs now. It should be no contest."

"That bastard killed more than ten of Stannis' knights when he attacked the Baratheon party. He killed his daughter. The bastard us his. That is the way our king wants it. He has already decided. Kill the bastard and beware of his wrath."

Marlon grunted, and his horse whinnied. He turned it away, and then Aegor stumbled back into the clearing. He was panting. Had he been running? Why? Was something chasing him?

"You- You have to come with me. Something- There's something you have to see."

Aegor vaulted back onto his horse, and then led them through the packed forest. It was only a short journey, but they rode with swords drawn. The sound of the dogs or wolves was fading, but it was still there. The bastard and his pack could still be nearby. Then they hit a clearing, and Manderly's horse reared up. The snow here was red.

There was a camp, though it was burning. There were plenty of dead figures on the floor. They wore jerkins of blue and silver. Many of them had bite marks in their skin. Their horses slowly entered the clearing, pushing further into it. There was a fire in the centre, but the pot was overturned, and the food was all over the floor.

Their eyes were all drawn to the tree at the far end of the clearing. There was a pool of blood on the floor below it. Attached to the tree was a body of a woman, stripped naked and nailed to the tree through her stomach. The woman was fat and swollen of belly. Below, there was the banner of House Frey, stained with blood and urine. Somebody had pissed on it.

"I recognise her. She was the woman that your king sent away after he had taken Winterfell."

Manderly turned to look at him.

"This is Walda Frey. Roose Bolton's widow. She was riding south for the Twins with what was left of the Frey men. This must be the bastard's work. That would explain the sound of the dogs. We should be careful, but swift. The Stark boy is nearby. We can't allow the bastard to find him."

Manderly and Abel rained in their horses, and then left the clearing. Aegor stayed, and Arthor found himself staring at the body of the large woman. She had been pregnant. That much was clear.

"I had heard stories in Karhold of what a monster the bastard of Bolton was. I never dreamed that our enemy was capable of this. The Boltons have always been disgusting, but to nail a pregnant woman to a tree like this? He deserves death."

He turned his horse to follow Manderly. It was just in time to see a figure hurtling towards Aegor's horse. They were running so fast that he couldn't tell who it was. He jumped forward, off his horse, and drove his sword through the assailant's chest, then breathed out. The man kept coming, however. He looked at the figure pulling themselves further and further onto his sword and stared into icy blue eyes.

"They're here!"

He heard Aegor scream, and then he pulled his sword out of the attacker, before pushing the thing to the floor. He turned to Aegor, who was still mounted, but was kicking away two of the dead things that were clawing at his feet.

"We have to burn them. It's the only way."

Arthor scrambled for a wooden stick that had fallen nearby and pushed into the flames of one of the fires that the bastard had lit in the camp. When it was alight, he turned it on the initial attacker, and listened to its wails as it burned, before turning towards Aegor, who was now struggling to hold off three of these creatures. He charged, and set alight one of them, who fell to the floor. The other two backed away when they saw the fire. They were intelligent. They knew their weakness.

He dived forward at them, pushing his sword towards them in a swinging motion, whilst waving the flaming branch at the other. That one dodged back, but the sword cut straight through the weak flesh of the other, and it dropped to the floor, sliced clean in half. The other looked at him, and then turned to flee. It was faster than it had any right to be and was soon gone. He made no motion to chase after it. Maybe it would get the bastard for him. He doubted it, but he could only hope.

Then he turned, and found Aegor stood, the nail from the tree buried in his chest. He slumped to the ground, gargling on his own blood, and the returned form of Fat Walda Frey stood behind him, her hands still slick from a mixture of her and Aegor's blood. She was unarmed, but Arthor fou7nd himself unable to moved towards her in attack. Instead his eyes were focused on the convulsing body of his sworn brother. He had been so young.

The woman made motions to come for him next but was suddenly pierced from above by a sword. She crumpled to the floor, and Marlon Manderly was revealed behind her, still on horseback. Abel was stood at the edge of the clearing. Manderly looked down at Aegor, without much of a reaction. It was almost as if he had expected it to happen.

"We must burn the bodies. The dead cannot be trusted to stay dead anymore. That much is obvious. We do that and then we can go and collect the boy. My cousin should know of what happened here."

"The king should know, too. It was one of his knights that was killed."

Marlon stared at him, and then nodded his head.

"Yes. Yes, of course. The king can be informed too. We must be swift. Burn your brother. Me and Abel will deal with the soldiers and the fat Frey woman."

Manderly and Abel dismounted, and Arthor turned his attention to his fallen brother. He was still coughing up blood, and his chest was still faintly moving up and down. He was still alive, though there was no hope for him. Even if they could get him to Winterfell there would be no one there that would be able to heal him. He pulled the dagger from his belt and ran the blade of it across his brother's throat, ending his life quickly. He took the torch and moved it down, covering Aegor Stane's body in fire, and allowing his brother to burn.

It wasn't long before the impatient Manderly sent Abel over to fetch him. He rose and walked towards where Marlon was stood with the horses. They would have one too many now, and Aegor's had been tied onto the back of Marlon's courser. He sighed as he looked at it. He had never known Aegor that well, but Stannis had too few pure supporters, and Aegor had been one of them. He would be missed.

"Have you ever wondered how coincidental it was that the Stark boy was discovered on Skagos, a remote island, and then a Skagosi knight suddenly appears to serve your king?"

Abel was talking in a whisper, and there was a cunning smile on his face. What was he trying to say? He had never drawn a connection between Aegor and Rickon. Might there be one? And if there was, then why was Abel trying to get him to see it. Was he not one of Wyman Manderly's men? What would he gain from Arthor being aware of his plot.

"What are you suggesting, singer?"

"Me? Nothing. Anything that you think has been deduced by yourself and no-one else. I am merely suggesting that if dear Aegor did know something that might have implicated anyone of certain crimes, then certain people may have desired him silenced."

Abel then smiled a knowing smile at him, and walked ahead, singing some song in a tune that Arthor wasn't familiar with and in a language that he didn't know. He was a strange man was Abel.

"Come on, Ser Arthor. If the bastard and his hounds are indeed in these parts, then we should look to collect the boy and return to Winterfell before tomorrow is out. We do not have time for you to stare into the distance and wistfully daydream."

His face rankled as he looked at Marlon, who was mocking him, and moved towards his horse. The three of them mounted and rode away from the clearing. He turned to look at where Aegor's burned remains lay as they did. The boy had deserved more than he had got. What had Abel said? Somebody may have wanted him silenced? That could only be Wyman Manderly. What had Aegor known that would have required Lord Manderly to kill him? It would have to be something serious.

"My cousin's younger son died at the Red Wedding, you see. We hold no love in our hearts for House Frey. The fat bitch married Roose Bolton too. There is no way that she didn't know. That family is cursed. Winter will come for them all soon enough. One by one they are falling. Revenge. That's what I call it. The revenge of the gods. The North Remembers."

"It never forgets. That woman was not the person that killed your cousin. She did not deserve to die for the sins of Walder Frey and his brood."

Marlon seemed genuinely incensed by that comment, and he spat on the ground.

"That is all very well for you to say, Karstark, but who did you lose? Your family's men turned on the other men of the North along with the Boltons. Proper Northerners died at the hands of your men. Good men perished- "

"Who did I lose, Manderly? My uncle Rickard was executed by the Young Wolf, who he called king. Two of his sons were killed by the Kingslayer, who Eddard Stark's lady wife released. My own grandfather was executed by my king, dressed up as someone who he was not. My brothers and cousins… They are dead. My family is near destroyed. We payed for our betrayal with blood. What little remains of my house lives on but is distant to me. Do not talk to me of losing loved ones."

That inspired at least some silence. Marlon had no retort to it. He was a blunt man, but he could be quick with his tongue, when necessary. Abel did not make any attempt to sing. The tension between the two knights would likely not be broken by any song. The mood was just not fitting.

It was another few hours before they arrived at any other form of camp. It was larger than Walda Frey's group, and there was a whole lot less death here. The banners that hung over the camp bore the three trees of House Tallhart. So, this was the house that Wyman Manderly had entrusted Rickon Stark to.

A man rode forward as they approached. He wore a brown jerkin and a green cloak. His hair was cut short and was brown, and he was broad of shoulder. He did not look familiar.

"My name is Brandon Tallhart. Who approaches?"

"Ser Marlon, of the House Manderly, cousin to Lord Wyman Manderly, the Hand of the King. This is Abel, a singer, and Ser Arthor Karstark, of the Kingsguard. We look for Rickon Stark, in the name of King Stannis Baratheon and Wyman Manderly."

Brandon looked to the men that flanked him. He then turned and nodded. His eyes were as grey as the clouds.

"Very well. My Lady cousin is waiting on you in her tent. The boy is with her."

Brandon led them through the camp. The Tallharts did not have many men sworn to them, and most of them had gone south with Robb Stark. The men here were either old and grey or young and green. He spotted several groups of boys training with the sword or the bow. Only a few of them were any good. Had any sizeable group attacked her, they could easily have taken the Stark boy prisoner. Maybe they were well hidden within the trees. That may have been their saving grace.

The central tent of the camp was large, but not huge. It was made of brown material, the same colour as mud, and was pegged into the frozen ground, beneath the snow. Two Tallhart men were stood outside.

"Samuels! Frost! Stand aside! Our guests desire to see Lady Eddara and Rickon Stark."

The two men bowed their head and moved to the side. They all dismounted, and then Brandon led them into the tent. Inside was still cold, and there were two beds laid out. One of them was covered by a brown quilt, whilst the other one was covered by one of grey. Inside were more men, stood around the fringes of the tent. At the centre of the tent were two children. One of them was a boy, the other a girl.

"May I present you to Lady Eddara Tallhart, my cousin and the lady of Torrhen's Square. My Lady, these are our guests, sent from Winterfell by Lord Manderly and King Stannis."

The young girl looked up at them. Her hair was dark, and her eyes were brown. She wore a gown of green. The boy had wild eyes and long, curly hair of an auburn colour. He wore a brown jerkin, with a clasp in the shape of a grey wolf. This must be Rickon Stark. He had heard that the youngest of Eddard Stark's children had grown wild and rabid after his father's death. He could see intensity in his eyes now.

Marlon stepped towards the boy, and then a growling came from the edge of the tent. A monstrous black wolf stepped forward. It was twice as tall as the Stark boy, and its teeth were bared. Marlon backed away. One of the men stepped forward and past the wolf. He blocked the way between Marlon and Rickon. He wore a jerkin of mixed brown and green.

"How do I know you are really Marlon Manderly and his friends. Tell me my name. Then I will believe you."

"You are Ser Arton of House Parkin. You are a landed knight sworn to my cousin. He chose you to oversee the protection of the Stark boy, as your father fought with him on the Trident. Do you need me to tell you anymore?"

The knight moved his hand away from the hilt of the sword and stepped aside. Rickon was on his feet now and stood solidly in front of Marlon. There was no sign of the boy moving for the Manderly knight, and there was a look of anger on his young features. Just then there came the sound of a woman coughing from behind them. He turned and found two women stood in the entrance to the tent. They were both young and fair, and both wore their hair in braids. One of them had brown hair, the other a garish green. The one with green hair was clearly the younger of the two. Brandon stepped forward.

"May I introduce- "

Marlon pushed him aside and embraced the two girls. They both accept the hugs, and eventually the Manderly soldier lets them go.

"It is good to see you too, Uncle. We expected that it would be you that grandfather sent for Lord Rickon. Who are your friends?"

Marlon turns to them, and gestures towards Abel first.

"This is Abel. Your father took him into his service before we took Castle Cerwyn. He's a wandering singer who is handy with a sword. My other companion is Ser Arthor Karstark, who serves on the Kingsguard of King Stannis. Friends, these are my cousin's grand-daughters, Wynafryd and Wylla."

The elder of the girls performed a curtesy in their direction, but the younger had no such manners. He could feel her eyes piercing in on him with a heated glare. He looked away. He could not stand the way that she was looking at him.

"My cousin sent them with Rickon and Ser Arton to help keep him in line and prepare him for his new responsibilities, whilst their father holds White Harbour and Moat Cailin. Wylla has been betrothed to Lord Rickon."

Betrothed? The Manderly girl must be at least ten years older than the boy. Her breasts were grown, and her skin looked supple. It would be another ten years before they could be married. Was this girl really resigned to that fate? She would still have her maidenhead after her twentieth name-day. Was he one to talk about that, though? He had sworn he would never take a wife, and he had never taken a girl before that. He would live at his post and nowhere else.

"I will have my best men get ready to ride. Ladies Wylla, Wynafryd and Eddara will join us. Some of my men will stay behind to dismantle the camp."

That was Brandon Tallhart talking. He had got lost in his thoughts. He doubted that he missed much. He found that the green haired girl was still glaring at him. Had her eyes looked upon anyone else the whole time that he had been here?

A few minutes passed, and he found that Manderly was talking with Ser Arton about the bastard of Bolton and the attack at the Frey camp. Brandon Tallhart was talking in hushed whispers with Wynafryd Manderly, and Abel was knelt with the young Tallhart Lady and the Stark boy, entertaining them with his lyre. He had no reason to stay here, and so he walked out, and through the Tallhart camp and then out into the woods. He couldn't stop thinking about Aegor and what Abel had said afterwards. Why would he say those things if he didn't want him to suspect Wyman Manderly, and if that was the case, did Wyman desire to be suspected? Why would that be the case?

"How dare you show yourself here? How dare you show yourself before him?"

The voice was a woman's, and when he turned he found the green haired woman from before. Marlon had introduced her as Wylla Manderly, one of Wyman's grand-daughters.

"You're a Karstark, right? Your men butchered Northerners at the Red Wedding. Starks Manderlys, Tallharts. They all lost men at the hands of Houses Frey, Bolton and Karstark. I'll ask you once again. How dare you come here?"

"I was not at the Red Wedding. I do not condone the actions of men sworn to my grandfather. He died for ordering them to do what they did. I burned him alive for that crime."

That caused the girl to falter, and she looked less unsure of her hatred now than she had when they had been in the tent, or when she had addressed him just then. He realised how young she was, now that he could look upon her without having his gaze returned with a glare. She had not yet hit her sixteenth year, and still had the slender, breakable form of youth.

"Your king, Stannis. Is he good? My father supports him, but he does it for his own gain. There is no point masking that. We Manderlys were thrown out of the reach by a jealous king. The Starks gave us a home. That is a debt that we will be repaying forever. Is Stannis that kind of king? I hear that he is just and fair, but also stern and callous."

"Aye, Stannis is stern. He is a hard man to warm to, but he is the truest king in these seven Kingdoms. When the Night's Watch called, he was the only king who answered the call. He protected the realm of men. He was the only one."

Wylla nodded, and then turned to leave. She spoke no more words as she disappeared from the clearing, and Arthor found himself watching her leave. No more words. No more hatred. He was right. Stannis was the one true king. He had to be. He had seen the dead rise. Winter was coming, and when it truly came, they would all need a king who was strong and true. That had to be Stannis.


	91. Daenerys VII

She stood alone in the skeleton of the Great Sept of Baelor. Viserys had told her tales of this place, and how it had towered over the city, as a symbol of the virtue, temperance and piety of the Targaryen kings. It had been built by one of her forefathers, Baelor the Blessed. He had been one of the kings that Viserys had talked of. He had described his greatness to her in great detail. There had been Baelor, Maegor, five Aegons. She was set to marry a sixth. They would rule the Seven Kingdoms together, though she had her dragons. She would be the true power.

Two white knights moved behind her. One of them was one of Aegon's men. She couldn't quite remember his name. Lonmouth, maybe. The other was her bear, Ser Jorah. He looked at her and nodded. He had been her most trusted advisor for so long, but now he knew that she could make her own decisions. She was glad that he wore the white cloak again.

She turned, and the three of them started to walk down the aisle that had formed. It was made up mostly of the high-ranking members of their armies, as well as a couple of the local lords who had survived the war. She saw Tyrion Lannister, seated beside his uncle. There was little Lord Dontos Celtigar, whose father and grandfather had been killed in the Lannister queen's wildfire attacks. He was seated beside Lord Aurane and his nephews, Corlys and Monterys Velaryon. Lord Corlys, that was.

On the other side were Aegon's men. Harry Strickland, who had betrayed Aegon for her initially, was sat amongst these men. Most of them were of the Golden Company. They had sided with the Blackfyre pretenders against the Targaryens many times, but now they supported the one true dragon.

There were other faces amongst them, though. The stone face of Jon Connington, or the bristly whiskers of Lord Selwyn Tarth. His daughter was on Aegon's Kingsguard. Daenerys approved of that. No woman should be stopped from picking up a sword and fighting the oppression of men with it. There were some of the other Storm Lords there, too. The heads of houses Lonmouth, Cafferen, Fell, Bolling and Whitehead were all sat together.

She looked to the head of the aisle and saw the boy that she was to be married to. He was not as strong as Drogo or Rogero, or as roguish as Daario, who had taken a small force to rid the Kingswood of bandits, but he was more of both than Hizdahr had been, so she was thankful for that. The boy was clever too, and handsome. He was also of her own family, and so in marrying him she was assuring that their bloodline be kept pure, as it should be, and had been in the height of the Targaryen dynasty. She had always thought that she was most likely to marry Aegon instead of Viserys, as they were closer in age.

Septon Luceon was stood up there with Aegon, as were two more of the white cloaks, Ser Hugo Bolling and her own, Ser Barristan Selmy. The Kingsguard knights would be officially sworn in after this ceremony, along with the new members of the small council. They would swear their allegiance to their new monarchs, who would share the Iron Throne in name.

She stood opposite the man that she was marrying and took his hands when the Septon commanded it. As they were of the same house, there was no need for either of them to give the other a cloak. They were both already dressed in Targaryen red and black. The Septon spoke the holy words, and they said the parts that they were meant to, and just like that they united their armies and their kingdoms. This was all that it took. She looked into the boy's eyes and saw a soft lilac, but they were pale and cold. There was less passion in him than there had been in Rogero and Drogo.

They turned then, and the gathered nobles rose from their seats and then sank to their knees. The Septon spoke some more words, and then Ser Barristan stepped forward.

"All rise now for King Aegon, of House Targaryen, the Sixth of his Name, and Queen Daenerys, of House Targaryen, the First of her Name. The rulers of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men. The Protectors of the Realm."

The sound of people getting back to their feet was audible, and cheers echoed throughout the building's skeleton. Aegon waved away the sounds, and then stepped forward.

"Many years ago, the stag, the wolf, the falcon, and the trout revolted against my grandfather. They called him mad, and maybe he was. My father was not. The Usurper, Robert Baratheon, killed my father on the Trident, and robbed the Seven Kingdoms of one of the finest kings that they never had. Since then, the Usurper or his children have ruled. They have brought murder, and death, and war. The dragon has returned at long last. Aegon the Conqueror fought not for kingdoms, but for peace. Let us do the same. Right now, we are only two kingdoms united. Dorne and the Stormlands. The Westerlands are weak. The Vale and the Riverlands stand in open rebellion, and the Usurper's brother holds the North. Let us look for peace, and if war should be needed, let us fight for peace, as my ancestors did."

That brought cheers from many of the gathered nobles. The boy was a fool if he thought any of that was possible. He had been raised on books, but she had been raised by the Dothraki. She had their viciousness. She has survived the political schemes in Qarth and had killed the Undying. She had tamed Slaver's Bay. What he wanted was naïve folly. People did not respect peace. They respected strength, and fear kept these Seven Kingdoms in line.

She swept down from the high dais as soon as she could. Some of the lords wished to talk with her. There was Aeron Lonmouth, who had been loyal to her father, and claimed to have followed the dragon from afar. She had not seen his support when she and Viserys had been starving in the Free Cities. Then came Selwyn Tarth and his daughter. Aurane insisted on dropping to his knees and kissing her hand. The last thrown in front of her was a dusky woman. Arianne Martell. The Princess of Dorne.

"Congratulations on your nuptials, your grace. I hope you will not forget all the support that Dorne will give you in the wars to come."

"Support I am yet to see, Princess. When Dorne has fulfilled it's promise, then it shall be suitably rewarded."

Arianne didn't have any visible response to that barb.

"My father lost a lot when King's landing was destroyed. Two of my cousins died here. My youngest brother, too. Many of our best men were with them. It takes some time for Dorne to amass troops, but the Fowlers, Wyls and Yronwoods prepare troops ready to raid the Reach, should they stand against you and your husband."

"Let us hope they serve my family better than your father's men did on the Trident. Dornish men fought alongside my brother and he perished. Your uncle was there, was he not? A knight of the Kingsguard?"

"My Uncle Lewyn fought valiantly and with honour. He was willing to die for your family name. How many men like him have you already killed?"

Daenerys met the dark eyes of the Martell Princess with a glare. She was preparing some sort of witty retort to that remark, but she found her husband by her side. He looked at her knowingly and took her arm.

"Princess Arianne, I was told that you were planning on not attending. Something about you being sick."

Arianne curtsied slightly, though it was reluctantly done. Daenerys had barely seen the Dornish Princess leave her chambers whilst she had been here. She had been good friends with Aegon's previous. Some Stark girl. She hadn't even bothered to learn the girl's name.

"I was merely here to tell you that I intend to return to Dorne shortly, your grace- Your graces. I have served my purpose here. You have the support of Dorne. I would like to ask your permission to return home. There is nothing but death for me here."

Aegon nodded slightly.

"Then I give you leave. Take my condolences to your father."

The Princess nodded, and departed the room with her sworn sword, a tall, handsome man with olive skin. Aegon turned to her then and stared her in the eyes. She couldn't get over how much like her he looked. They had the same colour hair, the same eyes. It was like she had married the male version of herself. Was that such a bad thing.

"We need Doran Martell's support. Insulting his daughter and uncle isn't going to secure that. Dorne may not be the most powerful of the Seven Kingdoms, but their army is virtually unspent. They can help us control the Reach, the Riverlands and the Westerlands."

"I have ruled for twice the time that you have, nephew. Do not lecture me on how to rule."

Aegon shook his head.

"And what has that ruling left you, aunt? Death and destruction in your wake. You can be loved, I know that. Your followers love you. We fight for peace, not for revenge, and not for more pointless war."

She wanted to bark something back at him. She was the dragon. She should not be questioned in this way, but then she realised. The boy was right. What had her method of ruling brought? Missandei was dead. So were Groleo, Hizdahr, Doreah, and countless others. She had freed the slaves, only to see them die of the pale mare, or at the hands of the Sons of the Harpy. Maybe sometimes it was better to look for the peaceful option. Maybe it was alright for her to compromise.

She stayed by her husband's side for the rest of the reception, followed at a distance by Jorah Mormont and Hugo Bolling. They talked with the Tattered Prince about the morale amongst the Windblown, and Tom Tidewood, about whether his Ironborn would be allowed to raid the coastline of the Vale.

Then they were confronted by Lord Tyrion and his uncle, Gerion. She had named Tyrion the rightful Lord of Casterly Rock after he brought news of the death of Marwyn to her. He had been rewarded for his loyal service and good advice. Yet still he asked for more. He wanted his brother, who had murdered her own father, to be spared of any punishment for his crime.

"May we talk, your grace?"

"That depends, Lord Tyrion. Do you wish to talk about Ser Jaime the Kingslayer?"

"If you just listened to him, your grace. If you just went to hear what he had to say about why he did what he did. I am sure you will see the truth. My brother is not innocent, but who amongst us is? You need to listen to him."

"I do not need to do anything!"

She felt Aegon squeeze her hand then, and she turned to look at him. He nodded gently, and she sighed. She knew what she needed to do.

"Very well. I will talk with your brother. You will come with me, lord Tyrion."

"I thank you, your grace. This is all that I want."

She boarded her litter outside the great sept, along with the dwarf. Lord Gerion stayed behind, but Ser Jorah accompanied them. He walked alongside the litter as they walked through the remains of the city. Most of the buildings were skeletons. Some had disappeared completely. She remembered how fondly Viserys had spoken of the bustling city and the noise that it made. It made her sad to think of it.

"I ran this city once. I helped keep it running. I defended it when Stannis Baratheon led his attack. I killed men that day. Brave men and I killed them. Braver men than me have died in this war, and braver men will die in the wars to come."

"Traitors will die. Stannis Baratheon revolted against my father with his brother. He now opposes the rule of the dragon again."

"You think you will win this war without losing a single man? Allying with Aegon was smart. You have the Dothraki, the Second Sons and the Windblown, and the Unsullied, too. Plus some freed slaves. He gives you the Golden Company, as well as the Stormlands and Dorne, but the Riverlands and the Vale are in open revolts for independence. The Reach and the Westerlands are silent, and the Ironborn are raiding up and down the west coast. You have to defeat most of them before you get to Stannis Baratheon, and, say what you like of him, he is no fool."

"You outwitted him."

"Ahh, but I am a very clever dwarf, and I had wildfire. He will not underestimate me again. He will not roll over and let you take the throne that he sees as being his. He is a stubborn man. Believe me, I've met him."

The rest of the journey was made in silence. When they got to the walls of the Red Keep, she found Andrey Dalt and Tristan Rivers waiting for them. They had been chosen to stay behind and guard the prisoners. Tristan was one of Aegon's men, whilst Dalt was familiar with the Dornish prisoners that she had taken into cells for the murder of Grand Maester Marwyn. Another man was stood at the entrance to the dungeons. He was one of the dwarf's men. Ser Carter of the Second Sons. Not many men from that company had made it this far. This man was one of the few.

"I will see the Dornishman first. Go, Lord Tyrion, prepare your brother. Get him fit for a queen to see him. Ser Jorah and Ser Andrey can accompany me to the cells."

The dwarf bowed his head, and then waddled away. Tristan stayed stood on the gate, and Carter remained outside, after passing the keys to Ser Jorah. He led them down the dark, dank corridor, avoiding puddles and wet patches. The cold was more evident down here. She could feel it in her bones. Winter was coming.

Ser Gerris Drinkwater was sat on the floor, slumped against the far wall of his cell. There was a pool of yellow liquid in the corner, and the cell stank of rancid urine. She tried not to vomit. The man had been full of cocksure arrogance when she had first met him. He had been handsome and suave, but little of that was left now. His face was covered in grime and dirt, and his blonde hair was greasy and unwashed.

"Do you come to have your pleasure of me, Daenerys Storm born? Pour some wine and slip out of your gown. It is some time since I had reason to move, but I may be up for it."

He had changed little in his time in a cell then. There was still the vapid front and the whimsical personality. She had thought it charming at first. She had almost fallen for it. He had been handsome, and young. He had reminded her of Daario. She was glad that she had not invited him into her bed now. He was nothing compared to Drogo, or Rogero, or even Aegon. He was nothing.

She saw Ser Jorah bristle at the comments, but she placed a hand on his arm to calm him. He bowed his head, and then unlocked the door to the cage that confined Ser Gerris so effectively. She swept in, being careful to avoid getting her gown caught in any pools. Ser Gerris made no move to rise or to bow. She had not expected that, though. He was insolent.

"My Grand Maester was murdered inside my family's ancestral castle mere moments after you arrived. Did you kill him?"

"I have already told your twisted Imp that I did not. I was sent to treat with you on behalf of Doran Martell. Not to murder a man of whom I knew nothing."

That was the answer that he had given Tyrion when he had been asking the questions. He was sticking by his story.

"Did one of your companions do it?"

"If they did then I do not know. I do not speak for any of them. When I set out from Dorne I was alone. I picked up Ser Garin in Lys and the pirate in the Stepstones. If you believe one of them committed the crime, then why not ask them? I did nothing."

Aegon had pardoned Lord Tarth for the crime quickly enough. His daughter had stood for him and pledged his honour that her father would not murder a harmless man. Andrey had stood for the Orphan, Garin, and she had given him over to his custody. Lord Aurane had asked for custody of the pirate king, and so she had given him the man. Apparently, there had been bad blood between the two when they had been in the Stepstones.

"How long must I remain in this cell before you see sense? Doran didn't order Marwyn dead. He asked me to deliver a message to him. I was going to do that when your Imp had me seized."

"So, you were lying when you said that you had never heard Marwyn's name?"

Gerris shook his head defiantly.

"No. I was told to deliver a message to the Maester. He gave me a description. He said to tell him that the third head was coming. He had received a raven saying so. Ask Andrey, he sent him to Norvos to join up with you. He sent Garin to Tyrosh in the hope that your men would stop there on their journey."

That took her aback. How could Doran Martell have known about all those movements? How long had he been planning something like this?

"Is this true, Ser Andrey?"

"Yes, your grace. I helped Princess Arianne in a plot, and in punishment I was sent to Norvos, and Garin to Tyrosh. Before we went, Prince Doran summoned us and told us what we must do. I was to join you, and Garin your troops from Slaver's Bay. We would ingratiate the Dornish into your troops, whilst Arianne did the same with King Aegon. That way Dorne was supporting both the dragon monarchs."

She frowned. If Doran had truly sent Gerris to talk with Marwyn, then it was unlikely that it was Gerris who had murdered him. Mayhaps it was someone who did not want that message to be delivered. And what could the third head of the dragon mean? Was there another Targaryen that she wasn't aware of? That couldn't be. Her and Viserys had been the only ones to survive. Of course, she had thought that until recently, and been proved wrong by Aegon. Maybe there was another…

"Do either of you knew how Prince Doran knew Marwyn? What they were up to?"

Andrey shook his head, and so she looked at Gerris.

"Prince Doran's younger brother, Prince Oberyn, served for a time at the Citadel. He may have met Marwyn there. In fact, his daughter, Prince Doran's niece, is currently serving at the Citadel."

So, there was a connection between the two at least. This was something that she needed to think on. She wanted justice for Marwyn, but she couldn't let Gerris or Garin leave now. Not after everything.

"Ser Andrey, I would have you escort Ser Gerris to a more comfortable cell. He will be kept locked in there, until I have more need of him. Somewhere with a bed perhaps, and a privy. He is to be kept under lock and key at all times. I am not sure that I can fully trust him just yet."

Ser Andrey nodded, and escorted Drinkwater from the cell. She didn't meet the eyes of the prisoner, but she assumed that there would be a look of thanks in his eyes. This was not a pardon. Not yet.

"I don't trust him, Khaleesi. Nor the Dalt boy. If he has lied to you once- "

"He has it in him to lie to me again. I know. See that whoever the men Ser Andrey chooses to guard Ser Gerris and the Orphan are replaced by men of your own choosing, Ser Jorah."

Her bear nodded, and she swept out of the empty cell, and to another, slightly lighter and significantly nicer looking cell.

Ser Jaime Lannister was seated on a chair in the centre. His good hand was bound, and the stump that had once held his swordhand was left loose. There was not much good that he could do with it. Tyrion was stood behind him, whispering something into Jaime's ear. The Kingslayer was less dirty than Ser Gerris had been. He had been bathed, and his wounds checked. There was a bucket in the corner for his waste. It had been emptied recently.

"I was wondering when I would get to see the great Daenerys Stormborn. My brother has told me about you. He did not do your beauty any justice."

"Keep your golden Lannister words to yourself, Kingslayer. I will not be swayed by them. You murdered my father in cold blood. You broke your oath."

Jaime's eyes scanned the room, and finally his slender face formed into a smile, a grin, even.

"And what about your white knights? Your knight here sold your secrets to Varys the Spider, only after he fled in exile for selling slaves, mind. Ser Barristan the Bold? Did he not bend the knee before Robert Baratheon before I slew your father? Where was his loyalty. I killed your father, girl, and I'm glad that I did. He was a monster. He should have been killed years before. I did these Seven Kingdoms a blessing."

She bristled at that, but the watchful eyes of Tyrion Lannister caused her to internalise it. The dwarf was small, but powerful. He had Aegon's ear, and he was also her best shot at controlling the Westerlands and Casterly Rock.

"My father- "

"Would have burned down this city and killed every last man, woman and child within it. Your father wanted me to bring me the head of my own father. What would you have done, Daenerys Stormborn? Would you have allowed thousands of innocents to perish because of the false sanctity of a few words you spoke when little more than a child?"

She was taken aback by the manner in which he spoke. The passion and the emotion in his voice was more than she had expected. The way Viserys had always told her of the Kingslayer she had thought him vain and conceited. She had thought him a false knight who took pleasure in the crime that he had committed. Had she been wrong? This man did not seem like a monster to her.

"I- I would have- I don't know what I would have done. That is a lie. I would have done the same thing that you did, Ser Jaime. My brother was cruel and abusive to me. My father… Maybe they do not call him the Mad King for no reason."

She looked down at the ground and clenched her own hand. Growing up she had often dreamed of this sort of moment. She had seen Baratheon and Stark, Arryn and Tully, Lannister and Greyjoy. She had dreamed of them all, with their knees bent to her, so that she could enact righteous judgement. Was that what she wanted now? She didn't think so.

"I will not issue you a full pardon, Ser Jaime, but I do not wish to see your head on a spike. I will hereby put you into the custody of your brother. You will serve as his sworn sword, but not his heir. You may not marry or take lands. You will serve as a Kingsguard knight but to your brother. Do you agree to these terms?"

Jaime didn't respond straight away, but eventually he looked up at her from his seat and whispered words, almost u8nder his breath. She could see that his eyes were watering. Was the great Ser Jaime Lannister crying?

"I do."

Just then, Ser Tristan rivers ran into the room. His red hair was beaded with sweat. They had left him above the gate. Why was he here? Surely Aegon had not yet returned from the Great Sept. There would be more socialising before they returned for the feast and the bedding ceremony. Even if Aegon was back, then why would Tristan have hurried here so fast that he was sweating?

"A rider here for you, Queen Daenerys. He- He is a Dothraki."

A Dothraki? That could only mean one thing.

"It must be a messenger from Rogero. Where is he? At the gate?"

"No, your grace. He insisted to be allowed entry, but he threatened to kill me. I did not want a fight, so I let him in. He said that he would await you in your chambers."

She pushed past Ser Tristan and Ser Jorah. She had to find out what this messenger had to say. She had to find out what had happened to Rogero.

Ser Jorah tried to keep up with her, but she ran through the ruined halls of the Red Keep. She ran through the Great Hall, almost tripping on her gown, and up the stairs that led to her own room. She stayed outside for a few seconds, just so she had time to ready herself. She didn't want to look sweaty. She wanted to look regal. When she stepped in she didn't find a Dothraki messenger waiting for her.

Rogero looked as if he had grown since he had been gone. His pale skin was still tanned from the sun, and his braid had grown longer, with more bells twisted into it. There was a cut on his cheek, and he was covered in sweat and dirt. She went to kiss him, but he moved away from her.

"When were you going to tell me?"

"Tell you what? About Aegon? How could I? I did not know where you were."

He shook his head. The bells in his braid rang, but they were not a happy sound.

"Do not lie to me, Daenerys. I know that you knew where I was. I had been staying with Lord Brune. He received your raven, and he told me what it said, despite your request for him not to do so. He told me, and so I took one hundred of my men and rode for the capital, in the hope I could win you back."

He steadied himself with a deep sigh.

"We were set upon not long after that. There were so many of them. The men of Cracklaw Point attacked us from behind, and then men from Rosby, Stokeworth, Hayford and Claw Isle came at us from the front. We beat them back, but only ten of my hundred survived. I don't know what happened to the rest of my Khalasar. They were sleeping at Dyre Den when I left them. They were massacred. I have no doubt of that."

She wanted to hold him. She wanted to comfort him, but she was scared that he would just push her further away. She didn't want that.

"And to further my feelings, when I arrived I found the golden lion flying amongst your banners. The Lannisters are our enemies."

"Not all of them- "

Rogero growled and moved to the window. He put his hands on the edge, and she could see that he was clenching them with some force.

"So that is it. You have taken one as a pet. Tell me, Daenerys, did you invite him into your bed the same as you did me? Does he fuck you like I did? I was foolish to think that what we had meant anything to you."

"It isn't like that. He simply offers me advice. He is clever. You are too, but you're also- "

"Also, what? A means to an end? I saved you because I heard that you were as wise as you are beautiful. Was I wrong? You do not trust a Lannister. Never."

She took a step closer to him and ran one of her hands down his back. She could feel the muscles, and the scars from battles won long ago. She just wanted him to forgive her and then enter her.

"When we first met I told you that I was in this for revenge. My father was a singer. Nothing more than that. He had a tongue of silver, and wooed many women, including the daughter of a great khal. When she found herself with me, she ran away with my father, but she died giving birth to me. My father never forgave me. We travelled the Free Cities all of my youth. Myr, Volantis, Norvos, Qohor. That's where we were when my father died. He left e an orphan."

Rogero turned back to her, and she saw the sadness in his eyes. It wasn't anger as she had thought, but sadness.

"On my fifteenth name day, a Khalasar arrived at the gates of the city. The wizards thought they would just want some gold to leave, but instead they asked for me, and the rulers obliged. They found me and handed me over to these hulking Dothraki men. They took me to their leader. I thought he was going to cut my throat in some ritual, but instead he handed me an arakh and a horse. He taught me to ride. He was my mother's father, and he took me in. His name was Bharbo."

Bharbo? She knew that name. Where did she know it from then?

"When he died five years later, his eldest son took over the bulk of the Khalasar, but two thousand men chose to follow me. My uncle went on to become one of the most feared Khals on the Dothraki Sea. His name was Drogo."

Drogo? Her Sun and Stars? Was what Rogero was telling her the truth? How could it be. How could Rogero be Drogo's nephew? How could he have not told her if he was? Was what she had done a betrayal of her first and truest love? He must have known that she would have rejected him if she had known.

"I grew my Khalasar up, until I too was known as a Great Khal. The first ever to carry half Andal blood. My grandfather… he named me Rogero. Before that I was simply Roger. You should never trust a Lannister. My father knew that, Daenerys Stormborn."

Rogero turned back to the window and looked out sadly.

"You wanted to know who I am, why I want my revenge against the Lannisters of Casterly Rock? My true name, my birth name, is Roger Tarbeck. The last son of House Tarbeck and House Reyne."


	92. Theon V

The cold of Winterfell was overwhelming at the best of times, but out here in the Godswood it was much more intense. He was knelt in front of the weirwood, the heart tree. The face was staring down at him, but he couldn't meet the eyes. Even now he was reminded of his sins. It reminded me of Robb, who he had betrayed, or Mikken, who he had killed. There were others. Chayle, the Septon, or old Maester Luwin, or fearless Rodrik Cassell. They were all dead because of his actions. The North may have forgiven him, but how could he ever forgive himself? All that blood on his hands.

Then there were the miller's boys that he had murdered. He had pretended that they were Bran and Rickon. His own kin. He was a kinslayer. He was cursed by the gods. Nothing would ever succeed for him, and yet Stannis intended to name him regent of the North. He had killed Farlen, the kennelmaster, for no reason but to save Reek, who had turned out to be Ramsay anyway. His sins were endless. The Old Gods would never forgive him.

"I thought that I would find you here."

He shivered as he heard the voice and turned to find Holly walking through the crisp snow. She was not unattractive, and he felt a twinge in his breeches as he looked to her. Ramsay had always threatened him with castration but had never done it. He had said that a dog with no cock never had any motivation. He had offered him bitches, but he had never taken them. That had always angered him.

Even now that she was here in Winterfell Holly still kept her hair unwashed, though it tumbled down her shoulders. Her lips were plump and pouty. She used him because he was too weak to say no. He had always been too weak. Did she really like him, or was he just being used because he could be?

"Do the old gods listen to your prayers, Theon Greyjoy? What do you pray for? The end of winter? A warmer fire? A defter tongue?"

She crouched down beside him and looked up to the heart tree. She considered it for a few seconds.

"We always heard tales of the kneeler knights from the south and their pointed star. None of the free folk took that faith. We believe in the trees and the power of the gods of old. We heard of the Starks who knelt but kept their gods all the same. I admired that. Sometimes you have to know when to drop to your knees, but a truly strong man does not abandon their beliefs."

That was definitely the Starks. Lord Eddard and Robb… They had stood by what they believed, even if it cost their lives. Even if it meant a worse place for the rest of them. Wyman Manderly claimed that Rickon would be back home soon. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. The cold stone walls felt colder without a true Stark being here."

"Abel is away, you know? Collecting the Stark boy. Why don't we head to his bed and defile his sheets? I might even let you enter me without your tongue this time."

He shivered again. Holly was a harsh mistress. She forced him onto his knees, or under the sheets. She forced him to rub her mound with his tongue or enter her womanly hole with the fingers he still had. That was all he was worth. He was not a proper man anymore. Even if Reek was dead, he was still Theon Turncloak. He was still a broken man. He always would be.

"N-No. I- I- I am talking to the gods. They need to hear me."

Holly growled at him rejecting her, and then looked up at the ancient weirwood that stood at the heart of the Winterfell Godswood.

"I spent my entire life praying to the Old Gods. I asked them for a caring husband, or a sharper sword, or for the dead to stop rising. They never listen. They are always watching, always singing, but they never listen. You will get nothing from them, Theon Greyjoy. Nothing."

Holly never talked about her life north of the Wall. She had been stolen by some raider. That Theon knew. He did not know who by, or what they had done to her. He dared not ask her. He knew what she was capable of. She had been with Rowan when they had murdered Yellow Dick and shoved his own genitals down his throat. He did not desire that fate.

"You ever seen a man scoop out the eyes of his victim, Theon Greyjoy? You ever heard the sound of the eye as it leaves the socket? You ever seen the blood running down the face, as if a tear coming from an eye that no longer exists? No? You aren't the only one who has seen horrors. For a man who still has his manhood you have very little dignity left."

She spat on the ground and walked away from him. He turned back to the pale skin of the weirwood, and the red face that seemed to be staring him down. In its eyes he saw Eddard Stark. He saw Rodrik Cassell. He saw Robb. He saw Bran and Rickon. Dead. They were all dead. What kind of a world killed them and yet allowed him to live?

"She was not wrong, Greyjoy. These gods will not answer you."

That was another woman's voice. He turned, and found the red woman striding through the snow. She was dressed in her red robes, though her copper hair was still short. It had not yet regrown.

"Gods rarely answer the calls of us mere mortals. Whether it be the Lord of Light, or the Seven faces in the south, or these Northern trees. They can show us what we need to do at times, but usually they just leave us to our own devices. They care little for whether mankind survives. They have their own games, and they play them with our lives."

He had been avoiding the red woman since they returned to Winterfell. She was the other person here that had truly known what Ramsay had been capable of doing. She had suffered like him, though she still had all her fingers and toes. She was not as broken as he was. She had spent less time in his clutches. Maybe that was why.

"The gods did not answer the calls of Shireen Baratheon or her mother as she burned. They did not answer Stannis as his men froze on the march here. They did not answer Jon Snow as he was stabbed by his own brothers."

"Jon?"

He remembered Jon. He had been an outsider at Winterfell. Lady Catelyn had hated him. She had pushed him away and made sure that he felt isolated. She had never truly trusted Theon either, but Jon had been ostracised and left to fend for himself. Robb had loved him as a brother, and Arya had spent as much time with him as she was allowed. Jon had always been different though. He had always been alone. He had always been the bastard.

He had teased him for that. He had laughed at his discomfort and his pain. Had he been masking his own feelings? Had he been pretending that, like Jon, he had never truly felt at home in Winterfell, even if he wanted to. He had been sorry when he heard tale of Jon's death. He had died like he had lived. Isolated and alone.

"Jon Snow… My Lord showed me visions of him in the flames. I saw his face. I saw him here, in this place. That can never be. My Lord lied to me, or I misread his will. Jon Snow is gone."

"Then why do you come here? Is it to mock me? Is it to remind me of the family that I have lost?"

The red woman shook her head and moved closer to him. He shirked away from her, but when he felt her hand on his skin, he felt warmth pass through his body.

"My Lord is capable of mighty things, Theon Greyjoy. Not even he can heal you wholly, but he can help."

He stared into her eyes, and then she closed them. She muttered some words under her breath, though he couldn't tell what they were. What little he did hear sounded foreign. He didn't think that this witch was speaking in the common tongue. The more she incanted the warmer her hands grew, to the point where he feared that her touch would burn his skin, and yet he could not pull away. When she moved her hand away, his heart dropped. His fingers and toes were still missing. She moved his hand to his head and ran his fingers through his hair.

She plucked a strand of it and he winced, but when she showed it to him he could see that it was not brittle and white, but brown. His hair had returned to the way it had been before. When he moved his hands to his mouth, he found the teeth that Ramsay had knocked out had regrown. What magic was this? What power did this woman's god have? Had it been her Lord of Light that did this to her, or the will of the Old Gods, to whom he had prayed every day since they took the Dreadfort. Could they be one and the same? Was that the secret that the gods were keeping?

"You have felt his touch. You are important. I can sense it. I saw you in the flames, fighting the dead. The Great Other will look upon you and shall tremble. You shall wound him. Come, I have someone that I desire for you to meet."

The red woman turned then and swept from the clearing. He noticed that where she walked the snow started to melt. Not much, but it was visible. Was she that warm? Was that the heat that her body gave off?

He followed her out of the Godswood and through the courtyard. He saw familiar faces as he walked. Some of them looked at him curiously, as if they noticed that something about him was different. He saw Robett Glover talking with Maege Mormont and Rodrik Ryswell. There was drunk Ser Bartimus asleep beneath the Library Tower. Robin Peasebury trying to bark commands with authority but failing.

Melisandre led him into the main keep of the castle, and then up some twisting staircases to her own chambers. They were large quarters that had been given to her. They had belonged to Lady Dustin before, but she had been moved downstairs. Only Stannis' most trusted supporters had chambers up here. The White Cloaks had been given a room to share, and then there was Godry Farring, Robin Peasebury, Theon himself, and the Red Woman.

There were two figures waiting for them in the Red Woman's chambers. The first was a slight boy. He wore a spoiled jerkin of blue and black, but it was dirty. His hair was cut short. And his eyes held deep sadness. The most noticeable thing about him was the missing right hand. He wore it in bandages and kept looking down at it. When he looked into his eyes he could see the same brokenness that he had felt when he had been Ramsay's pet.

The other figure was more familiar to him. He was tall and slight, with blonde hair and a laughing smile beneath his thin, pursed lips. He had been one of Ramsay's men. One of the Bastard's Boys. Damon-Dance-For-Me.

"What is he doing here? Do you know what he has done? Do you know who he has hurt?"

Melisandre looked to the man, and then turned back to Theon.

"I am aware of Damon's crimes. He has told me all of them. He has told me of the rape and the mutilation. He has told me of the theft and the thuggery, and of the murder, too. He put himself before the Lord of Light for judgement, and the Lord saw fit to spare him."

Damon moved his nimble hands to the shoulder of his jerkin, and pulled it down roughly, revealing a large portion of burned skin, where the flesh had melted beneath the flames.

"Looks like we've both been marked for our crimes, Theon. I showed you mine, maybe you should show me yours."

"We do not have the time, Damon. I must also introduce you to Devan Seaworth, Theon. He is- He was the son of a friend. I promised Stannis that I would care for him. I do not intend to break that promise. Go, Devan, fetch us some water from the well."

The boy skulked out of the room. He was clearly somewhat reluctant to be leaving. When he was gone, the red woman closed the door behind him. There was a fire crackling in the fireplace. It was small, but the Red Woman stared at intently. Theon couldn't draw his eyes off Damon, however, who was smirking at him.

"The Lord of Light is scared. I can sense it. Something is coming. The snow is falling thicker. The cold is here. I see- I see the Wall, collapsing into the sea. I see a castle of ice, overrun by the dead. I see eyes, they are as cold as snow and icy blue. The eyes of a bastard…"

"Ramsay."

He croaked his former master's name. Still the thought of Ramsay brought shivers to his body and tears to his eyes. He had been liberated and forgiven, but he was even now a prisoner to Lord Bolton. He was in a cell that he could never escape from. He would never be whole again.

"But I also see a fire burning bright. Somewhere in the dark. Somewhere hidden and surrounded by death. A sacrifice must be made. That is all that I see."

Melisandre rose to her feet and then turned to the two of them. She looked tired and weak, as if reading the visions had taken something from her. Damon stepped forward and steadied her, guiding her to a seat at the table. She sat and steadied her vision for a few seconds.

"I am growing old. I can feel it in my bones. My time is coming."

What was the woman talking about? She didn't look old. She looked young and beautiful, even with the shorter hair. His eyes were drawn to the choker that she wore at her neck. The ruby within it was glowing.

"I will show you, but you have to know the truth first. My mother was a sorceress who never aged. My father was a lord from an ancient family of Westeros. I was born not long before a war broke out, and so my mother fled. She took me to Asshai, where her own mother had come from, and there I learned magic and saw the will of R'hllor. I saw Dragonstone, and Stannis Baratheon stood before the Painted Table. I saw an explosion of green flame, and I saw the icy cold eyes of the Great Other. He was dressed in a black cloak. I waited for the right time, and then I returned to Westeros."

Her hands moved to the choker at her neck and struggled with the clasp.

"Eighty years I waited. When I heard that Robert Baratheon, the stag, had won his war, I set sail. I found Stannis on Dragonstone, and I worked my way into his court. I did what was necessary, what my lord desired."

When she removed the choker, her form changed. It was a hazy change. It was like he blinked, and she was someone else. There was a strange feeling in his brain. It was as if her change didn't surprise him. It was as if he knew what she looked like all this time, but his mind had been creating its own image of her.

She was old and heavily wrinkled, a similar age to Old Nan, maybe even older. Her breasts were sagging, and her hair was thin and wispy. She was horrid to look at, but her eyes were a light lilac colour. They were the only remotely beautiful thing about her now.

"What are you? What is this magic?"

Damon looked repulsed by what he was looking at. What had been the red woman cocked her head at that question.

"They call it a glamour in Asshai. I can change the way people perceive my appearance by wearing an item imbued with magical properties. You see, when the Lord of Light and the Great other first fought in the east, we were his warriors. His disciples. As the Great Other lay wounded, he cursed us. Any who take the words of our Lord, any who choose to wear his robes and truly believe, we will live forever, until our faith dwindles, or our life is snuffed out by other means. Our bodies age, and so the glamour was invented to cover that up, so people would never know the cross that we bare."

The Red Woman refastened the choke around her neck, and it was as if she had never changed. He could remember what she had looked like without it, but now she was back to the fair woman from before, with short copper hair and fair skin.

"Why would you show us this? Does your king know?"

"He is your king now, is he not, Damon? But no, Stannis does not know of this. I make sure that my choker is never removed around him. You two are the only ones to have seen me like that, and that is only because I need you both to know that I trust you. I have seen you both in the flames. The broken kraken and the laughing youth. You are important."

He looked at Damon incredulously. How could any god believe that this creature was worth saving, let alone making important? How many men had he mutilated or killed on the orders of Ramsay? How much torment had he caused?

"Now I require you to share your deepest secrets. Everyone here can trust each other. You go first, Damon."

The youth frowned, and then flicked his hair away from his face.

"Very well. My deepest secret… I killed Roose Bolton in his bathtub, and then framed his bastard son."

Theon was left dumbfounded. He was struck silent by shock. How could that be? Damon killed Roose? How? Why? He had been Ramsay's closest companion. Why would he turn on him and murder his father? Money? Was this why the Red Woman trusted him so much? Surely she could not believe-

"Now it is your turn, Theon. What do you wish to share?"

"I- I- Everyone knows my crimes. I betrayed Robb. I betrayed Bran and Rickon. I took Winterfell. I killed Mikken and Septon Chayle. I let Rodrik Cassell die before my gates. I watched my master rape Jeyne Poole."

The red woman walked over to him and laid one of her hands on his cheek. There was a warmth to it, as there had been before, and her eyes were a flickering fire, though that might just be the reflection of the hearth.

"What else? There is something else. Tell me."

"The- I ordered two children killed. Their mother, too. They were the miller's family. I had laid with the miller's wife before, a few times. She could not refuse me. I was Lord Stark's ward. I- Those boys- I don't- They were mine. I could see it in their eyes as they died. They had my hair, and my father's eyes."

The red woman closed her eyes and moved her hand away. Suddenly his cheek felt less warm. It felt cold.

"Good. We can now trust each other. The real work can begin. The Lord's work. Together we can save the realm."


	93. The Lady's Justice

The red mountains of Dorne towered over Archibald Yronwood. He looked up to them, as his horse traipsed through the sand. On his right rode another, a little boy. He had pale blond hair. There had been others, his guards, but they had left them behind when they started this trail. This boy was Edric Dayne, the Lord of Starfall. He knew where Ser Gerold Dayne was. That was who he was looking for. Edric had been insistent that Gerold was of a different branch of House Dayne, one that did not necessarily follow the desires of the main branch of the house.

"Our scouts spotted your target heading towards the vulture's shrine in the mountains. You can find your own way from here? You've travelled here before?"

"Aye. I came this way once with Prince Quentyn and my cousin Cletus. I know the way,"

Edric nodded. He was just a boy, there was the light of experience in his eyes, as if he had seen some horrors whilst he had squired for Beric Dondarrion. There was a playful look to his face. Lady Allyria had provided him both a boat and assurances that her nephew would help him in his mission, and the boy had.

The journey from Sunspear to Starfall had taken them about a week. Five days on the open sea, and then a further two to navigate themselves up the mouth of the Torrentine to the seat of House Dayne.

Edric had been welcoming. He had received a raven from his aunt, apparently, and had prepared a feast for the night of his arrival. He had sat at the high table with Edric, two cousins of the main branch of House Dayne, Lady Larra Blackmont, who had ridden down from Blackmont to greet him, and the captain of the ship that had carried him there.

The next day the ship had set sail, and he had sat down with Edric and Starfall's captain of the guard, Ser Andros Dayne, who was of the High Hermitage branch, and the uncle to Darkstar, and discussed where Gerold Dayne had last been seen. Balon Swann and Obara Sand had stopped over here when they came looking for the Darkstar, and Ser Andros had directed them to the same place, The Vulture's Shrine.

Many years ago, not long after the War of Conquest, a brigand and murderer who called himself the Vulture King had set himself up in the Red Mountains of Dorne. He developed a following, and soon some fanatics started to worship him, claiming that he could grow wings and fly like a raven or a vulture. They said that this gave him the ability to fight the Targaryen dragons. Some even claimed that it had been the Vulture King who had slain Meraxes over the Hellholt.

During this time, these fanatics established many shrines to their god in the Red Mountains. Two of them were burned to the ground by Orys Baratheon, the Lord of Storm's End, whilst another had been torn down during Robert's Rebellion. That left only one, high in the mountains, accessible by two paths, one that wound down and finished near Yronwood, and another that passed above Skyreach and came out to the east of High Hermitage. It was this pass that they had taken.

They had taken a boat up the Torrentine to High Hermitage, where they had docked and stayed the night. They had spent today riding, and this was where Edric would now leave him.

"I hope to see you again soon, Ser Archibald. I hope you recount to Prince Doran how helpful my house has been in administering his justice. Feel free to stop off at Starfall upon your return to Sunspear. The desert can be unforgiving at the best of time, but I hear whispers of rebellions and war."

"When I have brought Darkstar Dayne to justice then I shall return to Starfall."

Edric nodded, and then turned his horse, and so Archibald was left alone. He looked up at the red mountains that rose above him. Somewhere up there was Ser Gerold Dayne, who was calling himself the Sword of the Morning and the Knight of High hermitage. Up here also was Obara Sand and Balon Swann, who Doran had already sent after Gerold Dayne.

Obara was the eldest bastard of Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper, who had a long and bloody history with House Yronwood. She was a renowned warrior in Dorne, being the bastard who had most inherited her father's military prowess. Two of Oberyn's other children had perished in the disaster of King's Landing, whilst two more were back at Starfall. There was Dorea and Obella, who Doran Martell had named as his squires. He had decided not to bring them with him. They were too young for combat, and Gerold was not afraid of attacking little girls. He had proved that when he attacked Myrcella Baratheon.

Ser Balon was a knight of the Kingsguard, but he now served no king. He had been sworn to Joffrey Baratheon, and then Tommen, but both were now dead. Their sister, who had been wed to Doran's son, was also dead. She had been killed in the fire that had consumed King's Landing, ending the line of the Usurper. There was still Stannis Baratheon. Was that who Balon Swann would now serve?

There had been no reports from Obara or Balon after they entered the Red Mountains. Their last report had come from Hellholt before they headed north and into the mountains. There had been no raven from Skyreach saying that they had passed through, and Edric had not seen them pass through either Starfall or High Hermitage. They had seemingly just disappeared. Maybe he would bump into them in the mountains.

He started his horse along the mountain track and started to think as he did.

His uncle, Lord Anders, had often talked about the Red Viper at dinner. Arch had only been a child then, and he did not remember much of the conversation. When Quentyn first arrived at Yronwood he had been alone. Most of the household just avoided him and made him feel isolated. Arch didn't. He and Cletus had invited him to play, and soon they were joined by Gerris Drinkwater, a ward of Lord Anders, and Willam Wells. Cletus and Willam were dead now. So was Quentyn. Gerris was off doing whatever Gerris Drinkwater wanted to do. It likely involved both his hair and fucking girls. That meant that Archibald was alone.

Dorne had not lost much during this war of the five kings. They had supported the claim of Joffrey Baratheon, though they had not truly backed him. The rest of the kings had left Dorne untouched. Despite this, Prince Doran had lost his brother and two of his sons to this war. Then there had been all the Martell soldiers who had perished in King's Landing. Still, the Yronwoods, Wyls and Fowlers were amassing their forces in the Prince's Pass and the Stoneway. They would go off and fight soon, whenever Prince Doran gave the call. War was coming. He could feel it.

The journey through the mountains took most of the day, but soon he neared the Vulture's Shrine. He wiped his brow of the sweat before he made the final approach. His horse was clearly weary from carrying him and would be thankful for the rest.

He stopped just outside the mouth of the Vulture's Temple. It was at the top of a plateau, high in the mountains. There was a small camp set up, and a fire, which had been recently put out. He moved his hand to the hilt of his sword.

One of the Vulture's Temples had been a simple stone tower in the Prince's Pass. This one was built inside a rocky cave. He approached it and was met by three figures advancing out. One of them was a large man with a white cloak. The second was a woman, stern-faced and strong. The last was a thin man with lean arms and silvery hair that fell across one of his eyes. He wore a jerkin of purple and silver.

He must be Gerold Dayne.

It was the woman who spoke first.

"Who goes there? This is a curious place for travellers, and you will find that any foes that I meet will soon be meeting the tip of my spear."

This must be Obara Sand, the eldest bastard of the Red Viper. That meant that the large man with the white cloak would be Ser Balon Swann. This was where they had disappeared to. They were cosying up with the Darkstar.

"My name is Ser Archibald Yronwood. I have been sent here to bring justice to the false knight, Ser Gerold Dayne, for the attempted murder of Myrcella Baratheon."

"You are here on the same mission that I came on then, Ser Yronwood."

The white knight stepped forward. Stonehelm was not so far from the castle of Yronwood, though Arch's house had little cause to socialise with the Swanns of the Stormlands.

"Prince Doran sent me here, too. He told me that Ser Gerold was the villain, but Ser Gerold has told me otherwise. He told me the truth, as I am sure that he will tell you."

Allyria Dayne had told him that it would be wise to travel under the pretence that he had been sent by Doran to look for Gerold. Even Edric hadn't known that it was really his aunt that had sent him. He would not change that now.

"Prince Doran had told me to expect you, Ser Balon. He told me to wait for your expedition with Obara. I was not told to expect another. How can I be sure that you have the trust of Prince Doran, Yronwood? There is no love lost between your family and House Martell."

"Prince Doran has offered me the position of Captain of the Guards at Sunspear. I was a friend to his eldest son. He trusts me, Darkstar."

The Dayne knight huffed at that, and the hair that had been covering his eyes moved out of the way. Archibald could make out the soft lilac colour from here. He would have made a more beautiful woman than Obara Sand, who was sour of face.

"Then he will no doubt have told you that he ordered the attack on Myrcella Baratheon. He said that he hoped to draw the Lion Bitch's army south, into the mountains, where they would be ambushed, same as happened to Orys Baratheon when the Conqueror came with his dragons. He told me or Ser Andrey Dalt to do the deed. I did it. Dalt was too cowardly."

Doran had ordered the attack on the Princess Myrcella? But the Dornish Prince claimed not to harm little girls. Was that not what was meant to make Dorne different from the rest of the Seven Kingdoms? Was that not what made Doran Martell different from Tywin Lannister?

"You heard that story and chose to side with the person who attacked Myrcella, Ser Balon? What sort of Kingsguard knight are you?"

Balon scowled and looked at the ground.

"When I arrived at Hellholt I was told that young King Tommen had perished. I should have been there to protect him. It wasn't long after that when we received the news that Myrcella Baratheon was no more. I had failed in my duties, but their deaths removed me from my vows. I have no oaths binding me to the Baratheon name now."

"Surely Stannis- "

"Stannis Baratheon is a traitor. I will not serve him."

Archibald was unsure about that. He found it was more likely that Stannis Baratheon, who lived by the letter of the law, would not have taken in Balon Swann on his Kingsguard, given that Balon had fought for Stannis' nephews, and that it had been Joffrey Baratheon that had called him into the Kingsguard. He would call Balon Swann a traitor and more than likely take his head.

"King Robert had bastards."

"Most of whom were murdered by his wife. Edric Storm is alive, but with the Targaryens, and I know of none others. If I return to King's Landing or Stonehelm…"

So, the knight was here only because he feared that should he go anywhere else then he would be judged for not honouring his Kingsguard vows. For allowing both Tommen and Myrcella Baratheon to die horrible deaths. Dorne was more liberated and less judgemental than the rest of the Seven Kingdoms. Here he might not be seen as an oathbreaker.

"This is enough talk."

Obara stepped forwards, her hand firmly wrapped around the pole of her spear.

"You come here from my uncle, Yronwood? Tell me then. Why has he sent you? What news does he have? Are we to lead our armies north? To where? King's Landing? Highgarden? Oldtown?"

The way that Obara asked those questions made sure that he knew she was suspicious of him. They were asked pointedly, and there was poison in her words when she said Oldtown, almost as sharp a poison as the one that her father had used to murder his grandfather.

"I do not come from Prince Doran. It is not his justice that I am here to bring on Gerold Dayne."

The Darkstar hissed at that, and went for his steel, drawing it a couple of inches out of the sheathe.

"Then who do you serve? The crow?"

"I am here in the name of Lady Allyria Dayne. Your plots have been uncovered, Darkstar, and I am here to put them to an end."

He drew his steel as he spoke those words. Gerold drew his own, and Obara twirled her spear as well. In the heat of Dorne they stood there, facing each other down. The Mountains towered around here. They knew that at least one person would die here today.

"This is not my fight. I will not give my life for these Dornish plots, Obara."

Ser Balon Swann removed himself from the showdown and returned to the cool climate of the cave. That left three of them. They would be two versus one. Two of the strongest swordsmen that Dorne had to offer, and the daughter of the Red Viper. This would be a fight for the ages. One that the singers would sing of for many years. It was a shame there was no one here to witness it.

He made the first move, using his large sword in a broad sweep at Obara, but she dodged back easily, before charging forward at him, her spear pointed forward in a crude lunge movement. He sidestepped, but didn't have time to attack her again, as Gerold Dayne was on him.

Darkstar was quick, and well worth all the plaudits that came his way. He spattered him with attacks, using his slighter frame to his advantage, though none of his strikes hit skin. He could see that Obara was back up and readying to attack. He sidestepped the next of Gerold's strikes, before grabbing his arm and throwing him to the ground.

Next, he was parrying and sparring with Obara, who came at him with anger and rage. She lunged and twirled, swiping at his legs with her spear. Soon she was joined by Gerold, and he had to parry strikes from both of them.

He was being forced to back up, and it wasn't long before they had him up against the wall of the rocky mountains. Obara tried to pin him down by pushing her spear against his throat. He slammed his knee up into her stomach however, and threw her off, before slamming the pommel of his sword into the gut of Ser Gerold, who went backwards. He turned to Obara, who was trying to pull herself to her feet. She was supporting herself with the spear. There was blood on her lips.

"My father would have beaten you. You're lucky he isn't here."

He walked over to her, solemnly and sombrely. His uncle had dreamed of getting revenge against the Red Viper. Now he would get it. Here in the Red Mountains he would kill one of Oberyn Martell's infamous daughters. It had been a good fight. That much could be said for her.

She made one last desperate lunge for him as he stood before her, but she was weakened from the fight, and he was too quick for her. He moved his sword, and soon she was skewered on it. Their faces were almost touching, as she choked up blood. Her eyes squinted, and her lips sneered.

"You bastard- "

She then fell down and crumpled on the floor, her spear clattering beside her. Her body was lifeless, and blood started to pool around her. He saw Balon Swann in the mouth of the cave. There was a look of sadness on the man's face. Had he joined the fight then maybe this would have been different. Arch turned away then, and found Gerold Dayne on his feet. His weapon was gone.

"Let's make this fair, Yronwood. I'm unarmed."

He didn't response to the knight's taunts, and instead just dropped his sword to the ground. The two then charged at each other, but it was an unfair matchup. Gerold was quick and lean, but not as muscled as he was. He grabbed the Dayne knight by the throat with ease and threw him to the ground. He landed near the edge of the cliff.

"Do you give yourself over to justice now, Darkstar? Will you accept your punishment?"

"I did what my liege lord commanded, Yronwood. You should be bringing your justice to Doran Martell. Arys Oakheart as well, for it was he that told Doran of Arianne's plans. I am not the man you want."

He inclined his head and walked to the body of Gerold Dayne, who was laid on his back. His face was covered in dirt and blood, and there was a smile on his lips. He picked the knight up by the throat and held him in the air.

"In the name of Lady Allyria of House Dayne I charge you with treason and conspiracy to murder a child. In her name I sentence you to die."

The smile hadn't left Gerold's lips.

"What did she promise you, Yronwood? Her cunt? Her hand? You trust her? She'll kill you, just like she sent you to kill me. Mark my words. You died the moment you agreed to serve- "

He tossed the Darkstar backwards, and the boy didn't even finish what he was saying. His words were replaced by screams as he fell from the mountain to the jagged rocks below. The screams echoed around the mountains and ended in a loud crunch sound. There was no more sound. No more japes would come from Gerold Dayne's mouth.

The Darkstar had fallen.


	94. Tyrion III

He found himself waddling through the ruined halls of what had once been the Red Keep in the early hours of the morning. The sun was barely up, and only people who had to be awake found themselves awake. There were guards on the walls. In the areas that were safe to stand on, at least. The only people staying up here were the highborn nobles, or senior members of the armies that the two rulers had with them. Many of them were having to share rooms. He, for instance, had both Uncle Gerion and Jaime sleeping on his floor. That was one of the ways that Daenerys was having him keep an eye on his brother.

He was joined by his two kisnmen now as they made their way to the small council meeting. He had been up late with them, and so they were all weary eyed and tired. Gerion had told them stories of his time on the seas, whilst Jaime had recounted the events that had taken him from the Riverlands to the Vale to here, just in time to watch the city burn. There had been a silence, which he had eventually filled with tales of his own exploits. He told them how he had gone from Pentos with fat, old Illyrio, and had then met up with Aegon and Connington, before sailing from Volantis to Slaver's Bay, via slavers and sellsword companies. He didn't tell them everything. He left out Penny. He still felt guilt for leaving her behind. He frequently wondered what became of her.

Illyrio was still a mystery that thought of. What had been his game? He had raised Aegon up from being a babe, after being sent him by Varys, and had taken in Daenerys and her elder brother and wed her to a Dothraki Khal. What did he gain from these games? Westeros was not rich, not anymore. The crown was in debt to most of the major houses of the land, and also to the Iron Bank, who were backing Stannis.

The problem with money was a key one for the two dragons. Selwyn Tarth had been named to the small council as Master of Coin, along with Aurane Velaryon as Master of Ships, Harry Strickland as Master of Whisperers and Jon Connington as Master of Laws. Ser Barristan had been named as Hand, and also Lord Commander of the Kingsguard.

The discussion for official places of power had been a long one, as well as the discussion on what to call those positions. His dear sister had renamed the small council with titles such as justiciar or grand admiral, in the style of the Free Cities. Ser Barristan and Lord Connington had pushed for these to be removed, and there had been little opposition to it. The things that his sister had done were best forgotten. Not that they could be. Not in the ghost town that she had created.

It had been titles such as the Kingsguard that had caused problems. Daenerys had been against using the term king in it at first, but had eventually been convinced otherwise by Aegon. It was that decision which had seen Barristan named Hand and not Connington. A form of compromise between husband and wife.

The Kingsguard was now made up of seven knights again. Each one was noble and capable, though none were of the calibre of Arthur Dayne or Aemon the Dragonknight. Hugo Bolling, Bryce Cafferen, Brienne Tarth and Daemon Lonmouth had been chosen by Aegon, whilst Barristan, Humfrey Hightower and Ser Jorah had been chosen by Daenerys, though Ser Humfrey was away on ambassadorial business. He was negotiating with Willas Tyrell, the new head of the house after his father's death, at Highgarden, though they had not received a raven from him since his arrival at the Tyrell seat.

The small council was not just restricted to the various positions now, however. The men had taken to calling it the large council due to the sheer amount of advisors and nobles who were invited and allowed into meetings. Daenerys' khals, Rogero and Motho held places, as did Lords Bolling, Cafferen and Lonmouth. Places had also been offered to Lords Rykker, Mooton and Bywater, but they had refused the call. He had also been given a place, of course, along with his uncle. Jaime had to come too, but wasn't meant to talk.

Daenerys had officially named him the Lord of Casterly Rock ahead of his cousin, Martyn Lannister. The Lannister armies had yet to pledge their support for Daenerys. They were still reeling from the armies of Edmure Tully, who had sacked many of the castles of the West and killed Damion Lannister.

"Lord Tyrion! Lord Gerion!"

The three of them turned when their names were called out. There was a man stood before them who wore the arms of House Velaryon on his dented and well-worn armour.

"There are men at the Dragon Gate. They are calling for members of the small council to talk with them. I managed to find one other, milords."

"Then why do you call to us?"

"He is foreigner, milord. You are not."

This man represented one of the problems that Daenerys and Aegon were going to encounter. Daenerys had lost most of her Dothraki in a massacre near Rook's Rest, but Motho's khalasar was still shunned by the Westerosi in her army. The same was true for the Pentoshi that supported her, and the Essosi that supported Aegon. They were seen as both outsiders and as foreign invaders by many of the native peoples. That was why the Reach, Riverlands and Westerlands were not rushing to her cause.

"Then let us go. Uncle, you had best attend the meeting. Tell our king and queen why I am unable to attend. Brother, you shall come with me."

Jaime and Gerion nodded, and so they parted ways. Tyrion was not a fast walker, but there was no time to ready a litter. He sent the Velaryon man on ahead, so that no discussion would start until he arrived, and then he waddled through the city as quickly as he could, with his bother trying to stride alongside him whilst also not walking too fast as to go ahead of him. It was a queer balancing act, and the two of them must look quite odd.

He had written two ravens to his cousin in the West, but neither had been met with a response. It had been a strange feeling signing off as the Lord of Casterly Rock. His father would not approve of that. He could be certain of that much.

His father had always hated him. From the moment he had torn his mother in two when he was born, to the moment that he killed the great Lord Tywin on his own privy. There was a poetic justice there. He had murdered both of his parents. It was as if some malevolent, fat god was writing his life as some cruel story.

The Dragon Gate was the northernmost gate of the city, save for the Iron Gate, which opened up on the coastal road to Rosby. It was named as such as the once-mighty Targaryen Dragonpit towered above it. Addam Whitehead had been given command as a nod to Lord Connington, who the boy had formerly served.

He was stood atop the gate when Tyrion and Jaime arrived, looking out over a line of eight riders, who were supported by one man each, who carried a banner, as if into battle. He recognised the banners of seven Crownlands houses. There was Brune, Stokeworth, Thorne, Hayford, Rosby and Bywater, with the banner of House Rykker being in the centre, alongside the red dragon of Targaryen.

Tyrion then surveyed the people gathered on the gate. He spotted the Velaryon man from before, as well as men from Houses Whitehead, Bar Emmon, Sunglass, and Selmy. He also saw the great figure of Rogero, the pale-skinned khal. He was glaring at him, as if Tyrion had in some way wronged the man. The soldier had been right to fetch him. Rogero was aggressive and rash. He should not be trusted with talking to potential allies.

The central rider brought his horse forward slightly, and readied himself to speak. He couldn't see the faces of any of these men, as they wore hoods to mask their faces. The rider coming forward lowered his, and Tyrion realised that he was a younger man, still relatively untouched by war and with honest features.

"My name is Renfred Rykker, the Lord of Duskendale. Who am I addressing?"

Rogero made to step forward and talk, but Tyrion was quicker than him, and was already at the battlements.

"I am Tyrion Lannister, the rightful Lord of Casterly Rock and slayer of my own kin. You are of House Rykker. You should hold loyalty to Queen Daenerys. It was, after all, her father who rose you up as Lords of Duskendale."

"My house owes the Targaryens a debt we can never repay. Aerys Targaryen was a madman, however. I will not rush to support his daughter out of loving memory for him."

Rogero spat on the ground then, and attention turned to him.

"A fine way to repay your debt. Riding with traitors. I recognise these banners. The claw print of Brune and the lamb of Stokeworth. You were both present for the battle near Cracklaw Point. You massacred my men as they slept."

The man whose horse stood before the banner of House Brune tore down his hood and rode forwards. He was a large man with two chins and a bristly white moustache. His nose was like that of a pig and his eyes were too close together.

"Your men who ate from my table all of the supplies that we had taken for the winter, who raped my servants and threatened my daughters with the same thing. Yes, I killed them, some with my own two hands, but they deserved it. This place is better for their death. Safer for us all."

Renfred sighed, and Tyrion got the impression that the man who had just spoken was not someone the boy liked. Maybe he was Rykker's own version of Rogero.

"I recognise Lord Eustace Brune, the Lord of Dyre Den, who represents all the men of Cracklaw Point in these negotiations. I should introduce the rest of my companions. Lady Asher, the Regent of House Hayford, Lady Monica Thorne, Lord Artos Bywater, Ser Will Rosby, the Regent of Rosby, and Lord Bronn of the Blackwater, the Lord Protector of Stokeworth."

Tyrion had been watching each of them as they lowered their hoods. Lady Asher was bold and beautiful, with dark, wild hair, and a curvy figure. Monica Thorne was fiery, with red hair and gleaming eyes. Lord Artos was young too, little more than five and ten years. Ser Will was older, in his forties at least. He reminded Tyrion of the men of the North, with a long, thick beard of red hair and a fierce gaze. He started at the last name that Rykker announced.

"Did you say-"

"Aye, Imp. He did. Lord Bronn now, not just Ser. Quite the title given the last time that we met. Meeting you has done wonders for my career."

Bronn was as lean as Tyrion remembered him, with dark hair and stubble for a beard. His hair was lank and greasy, and his eyes wolfish and hungry. The last time they had talked, Bronn had refused to stand for him against Ser Gregor Clegane. Cersei had wedded him off to Lollys Stokeworth as part of that deal that they made. If he was Lord Protector…

"I didn't even need to do much. Lollys' sister and her husband got themselves killed, and her mother died of a chill. After breaking her hip from a fall, of course."

There was a glint in Bronn's eyes as he said that. He suspected that there was more to Lady Tanda's death than a simple fall. He remembered vividly all that Bronn was capable of. He had killed Ser Vardis Egen in the Vale, and that singer here in the city.

"It is good to see you again, old friend."

"Aye. Its good to see you too."

Renfred coughed, and Tyrion turned his attention back to the boy.

"We seek entrance to the city, so that we can negotiate."

"Do you carry any arms?"

He looked specifically at Bronn and Eustace Brune as he asked this. Eustace seemed like a character with a fiery temper, even if he looked too fat to pose much of a threat. He knew what Bronn was capable of, however, and he wouldn't take any risks around him.

Renfred Rykker shook his head, and so Tyrion nodded to Whitehead for the gates to be opened. They were, and he walked down to greet their guests. A litter had prepared for him and had been sent down by the time that he for down there. He ended up sharing with Lady Monica and Lady Asher. It would take some time to get back, so he had best get to talking.

"Tell me what brought you lovely ladies here. I heard Ermesande Hayford was Lady of Hayford now. Forgive me if I am not familiar with you, my Lady."

"I would not expect you to be, Lannister. My late husband was the last Lord Hayford, and now our daughter is Lady, though she is just a babe. My husband had no kin, so I rule as her regent."

There didn't appear to be much remorse in the woman's words when she talked about her husband. There had been little love between them, he sensed.

"It is a common theme, Lannister."

He turned his attention to the Lady Monica, whose cheekbones were thin and sharp.

"I was fourth in line of my house before this war. My father and brothers all died fighting. My husband, too. House Thorne has suffered so that you high lords may play your game of thrones."

He sat there for a few seconds, with Monica's eyes glued to him. He felt that was expectant of him. She was looking for some witty retort from the dwarf of House Lannister. This was what he had become now. Nothing more than a jester who said funny things.

"You have my condolences, my Lady. And you too, Lady Asher. This war- It would be best for it to end soon, so that no more innocent lives can be claimed."

"And do you think there is much chance of that happening, Lannister? Stannis Baratheon still fights in the North, with Roose Bolton dead. Yohn Royce and Edmure Tully both claim their kingdoms. As does Euron Greyjoy in the Iron Islands. The West has been ravaged, and the Reach and Dorne remain distant. Your Queen has her dragons, aye, but few natives support her cause. A few Stormlands houses. That is all."

Lady Asher looked out of the litter after finishing that speech. She observed the destroyed city and the ruins that they were being transported through.

"How many thousands died here because your sister felt spurned? How many innocents… Aerys Targaryen was the same. Your queen's father, was he not? Westeros would have burned had it not been for Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark."

Lady Monica moved a hand onto Lady Asher's soft, pale skin, and she slipped the curtain back into place, so the horrors outside were hidden. That was what the people of Westeros needed. One giant curtain, so they could forget the horrors of the last two years.

"We are almost at the Red Keep. I am anxious to meet this dragon queen of yours, Lannister."

The rest of the journey was spent in silence. It was an awkward one. He was considering what the two of them had said. He had heard of the burning of Ben Plumm, of the Second Sons, and Skahaz mo Kandaq on the beaches of Dragonstone. Was there some of Aerys in Daenerys? Illyrio had assured him that the girl was sweet and kind. Was he serving another monster?

He left the litter quickly after they arrived, and turned to see Monica whispering something into Asher's ear, before the two started giggling. It wasn't a child's giggle. It was more like a hushed laugh.

He found Ser Bronn already dismounted, stood looking up at the ruins of the Red Keep.

"It looks different, I know."

"Things tend to after they've been burned down. Your sister finally lost it, eh? She was always a bit of a mad bitch."

Tyrion stood there and looked up at Bronn. He remembered again how he had met the sellsword, and how they had then parted ways.

"I don't blame you. For not standing against Gregor Clegane. I did at the time, but it takes a brave man to stand against the Mountain."

"A stupid man, more like. Look what it did for your Martell. I laughed when I heard you escaped, and after I heard what you did to your father. Wrinkly old cunt deserved it. I named Lollys' bastard for you. After your sister sent assassins after me."

"Assassins? How did that go for them?"

Bronn snorted at that.

"How do you think? She picked poor men. Balman Byrch? That's more an insult than anything else. I killed him easily. He was married to Lollys' sister. I'm Lord Protector now. How do you think it went for dear Falyse?"

Tyrion remembered the Stokeworths from when he first arrived in King's Landing to serve Joffrey as Hand of the King. Tanda had always invited him to dinners, so that she could try and marry him to Lollys no doubt, who even then had been thick. He also remembered Falyse and Balman. A stuck-up woman and her proud husband. He had been a feared tourney knight once, but all that had been lost with age. He had no surprise that Bronn had killed him.

Just then, Tyrion spotted his uncle across the courtyard. He was mounting a horse. He waddled over to him.

"Where do you go, Uncle?"

"Casterly Rock, nephew. Daenerys wishes for me to go and try and unite what remains of the West behind you. She has insisted that I leave at once, with a company of Golden Company men. This is goodbye for now."

Tyrion looked up at his uncle. He had thought him dead for so many years that it was still strange to see him living and riding. He looked so gallant. Underneath that jerkin were horrendous burns, but they were hidden.

"And Tysha?"

"She remains here. With my ships. You should talk with her, Tyrion. I saved her from her fate so that you could do that. Not so that you could ignore her."

"Very well, uncle. I hope the road treats you well, and that I see you one day soon. Farewell."

"And to you, nephew."

And with that, Gerion Lannister rode from the city, twenty men at his back, the gold lion of Lannister flying above his head. Tyrion turned back to Bronn, and saw that the knight now had another figure stood with him. The two crept away from the courtyard and up onto the battlements. He followed them.

The unknown figure was hooded, dressed in robes. Had he been at the parley outside the walls? Tyrion didn't recognise him. Not from the back, at least. There was something about the way that he walked, though.

As he reached the battlements he looked out. He could see flags flying the dragon of Targaryen outside the city. There seemed to be more than there had been before. He had lost sight of Bronn and the stranger.

"You should really try to be quieter, Imp."

Tyrion turned, and found Bronn stood against the wall, inspecting his fingers, as if they needed a clean.

"You are hardly the most discrete person in this castle."

"I needed no little birds to spot you coming, my Lord."

Tyrion turned again then, and found the smiling face of Lord Varys, stood in the same robes as the stranger from before. They hadn't been flamboyant for him to think Varys at first, but now he recognised the style of walking. What was Varys doing here, and why was he sneaking off with Bronn?

"You met Lord Renfred, I hear, and Ladies Asher and Monica. Renfred is a loyal boy, but green, and not as clever as you were. He doesn't understand the bigger picture."

"And what picture would that be?"

Varys turned to look over the battlements himself now. He stayed silent for a few seconds.

"Power comes and goes. Your queen, she is the daughter of Aerys. She was raised by her brother, who called himself the last dragon, and said the throne was his. Viserys was wrong. There was another."

"Yes. Aegon."

Varys shook his head.

"Rhaegar Targaryen and Elia Martell had two children together. One of them is here, in this castle. The other is coming. Rhaenys Targaryen is coming home, my Lord."


	95. Arthor VII

The cold wind bit into Arthor's skin, even beneath his Northern furs. They had made slower progress than he had hoped that they would. The wagon that held Lady Eddara, the Manderly sisters and little Rickon kept getting stuck in the snow. It was frustrating. They would be lucky to reach Winterfell tonight, and they had already been riding for three days longer than planned. He was anxious to return home and to his king's side. He disliked being this far away from him, even if he was surrounded by friends in Winterfell.

None of the children were old enough to ride, and so the wagon was necessary. Rickon and Eddara were too young, and Wynafryd disliked horses. Wylla had wanted to ride, but Marlon had forbidden it. The Manderly knight rode at the head of their party, often with Ser Arton, who was a knight sworn to the Manderlys. Marlon had seemingly taken command.

The only other highborn soldier with them was Brandon Tallhart, who was Eddara's cousin, and named for Brandon Stark, who had been Eddard's brother. He wasn't as wild as his namesake had been, or as fierce, though he was Northern, and made of tough stuff. He was not a foe to be shirked at. Thankfully they were on the same side. The rest of the men here were either Manderly boys or Tallharts who had survived this long. Not many of them were in their prime. Most of the strong Tallhart men had gone south to die with the Young Wolf.

That left only Abel, the singer. He had been oddly quiet since they picked up the Stark boy. He talked rarely through the day, and only ever sang at night around the campfire. Rickon liked his voice, and it seemed to soothe the direwolf, who either spent its days stalking the wagon, growling at any stranger who came nearby, or off in the woods, stalking for prey. Sometimes the wolf howled at night. Whenever it got a response, it was always from some distant place. Somewhere far away. Somewhere south of where they were.

Often he found himself drifting off when riding, to think about other things. He thought about his father at Karhold, who hated him, and the maester that he had killed when he was there. It had been a necessary evil, he kept telling himself. The maester had been a traitor. He also thought of cousin Harrion, who had drowned on his return from the south when his boat was sunk in a storm.

Harrion had been the nicest of Uncle Rickard's sons, and had been the kindest to little Alys. He had not been as strong a warrior as Torrhen or Eddard, but he had been able to hold his own. His death had been a saddening one. It would not have been pleasant for Alys either, who had been close with him.

Harrion, Torrhen and Eddard had been so ready for war when Uncle Rickard had called his banners to support the Young Wolf. They had been talking of proving their honour and fighting for their family name. Uncle Rickard had told them of how war was not all that the stories built it up to be. None of them had ever returned to the North. The Karstark line was as good as dead. His family was as good as dead.

"Ser Arthor?"

He started out of his daydreams then, and looked around. There was no rider alongside him, but when he looked down he found the green haired figure of Wylla Manderly looking up at him. Her eyes were like that of a doe, and were a hazelnut brown.

"What is it, Lady Wylla?"

"It's the wagon, Ser Arthor. The food wagon. There's a- There's a direwolf eating out of it."

"Shaggydog?"

The girl shook her head at that. Her green hair fell around her shoulders, and shimmered in the cold sun as she did.

"No, Ser Arthor. It's a new one. Ser Brandon suspects that it is one of the ones that Shaggy has been calling to at night."

He dismounted his horse and stalked around to the food wagon. Wylla followed behind him. The snow crunched beneath his feet, but it was not a long walk.

When he reached the wagon he found a direwolf even larger than Shaggydog stood there. It wasn't making any movement for the food. It was almost as if it had been waiting for him, for the moment that it saw him it turned and leaped for the cover of trees. The wolf had grey fur and golden eyes. He turned, and found that Wylla had been joined by Wynafryd and Brandon Tallhart.

"Should I send men after it, Ser Karstark?"

"No. We have had enough distractions for today. We must get to Winterfell before the night falls. If there are any more beasts the size of that in these woods then we don't want to be staying here longer than we have to."

Brandon nodded, and took Wynafryd by the hand and walked her away. He was sweet on her. That much was clear. He wasn't sure Wyman Manderly would want one of his beloved granddaughters marrying a Tallhart, though. They weren't a large house.

He turned back, so that he could get one last look at the mighty she-wolf as she left his line of sight. Then he saw the flash of black fur following the wolf into the trees. That would be Shaggydog. Hopefully the wolf returned to them quickly enough.

He then felt hands on him, as he was pushed against the back wall of the food wagon. Wylla's hand was pressed against his chest. Her other stroking his groin. He could feel himself stiffening, even if he didn't want to. He swore an oath. He swore an oath. Why was she doing this now? Why was she doing this here.

He could see her biting her bottom lip, with her front teeth. Maybe she didn't know why she was doing this.

"I don't want to marry the boy, Karstark. I am twice his age. Three times his age nearly. I don't want to marry a boy. I want to have a man. Will you have me?"

"I- I swore an oath-"

The girl looked down dejectedly, and then let him go. She sighed, and moved her green hair out of her eyes. He could see that there were beads of tears in the corner of them. Of course he wanted her, but he couldn't have her. That was his solemn oath.

"Very well, Ser Arthor. If the words you swore to a southron king are more important then you honour them. I hope that they keep you warm at night."

He watched her go, and then stared at the snow as she did. Had he made the right choice? He had to honour his oaths to Stannis, who had pardoned him despite the treachery of the rest of his family. Was it fair that those oaths has robbed him of any hope of love that he could have held. He remembered the tale of some Kingsguard knight who had slept with a Queen. The man had been gelded and sent to the Wall. Had that been fair? Had that been just?

He walked back around the wagon and to his horse. He found that Brandon Tallhart was already mounted there, waiting for him. He climbed onto his own horse before turning to the man that clearly wanted to talk with him.

"What is it, Brandon?"

"I was just wondering if we could send a rider to Winterfell, Ser Arthor. They could return with more troops and help us get the wagon back sooner. We should try and get back before night fall. You saw that wolf… If there are more like it-"

Arthor considered what Brandon said. One swift rider could probably get back to Winterfell in two hours. More horses would be of great help for them. Brandon was right in that they needed to get back to Winterfell before the moon rose. He was still convinced that the Bastard of Bolton was somewhere around here. With him and the wolves… None of them were safe if they camped another night.

"Very well, Brandon. Take two of your best riders and head to Winterfell. Return swiftly. We shall carry on along our way, but you should return with more men and more horses."

Tallhart nodded, and then rode off. He turned his horse, and urged it on, so that he could catch up with the mounted men who were leading their caravan. He soon found Abel riding alongside him. The singer was quiet, and Arthor could tell that he was as anxious as anyone else here to get back to Winterfell.

"What do you ride for, Ser Karstark? Your honour? The words you spoke to your king when you were on your knees? Is that what keeps you going? Is that what keeps you fighting?"

The questions came out of nowhere.

"I ride for Stannis-"

That earned some laughter from the singer. His laugh wasn't as pleasant as his singing voice. It was hard and cold, and told him that Abel had experienced some hard times in his life. This man had seen some cold winters. He could sense it.

"Do you believe that? I ride for a nice warm cunt. I know its waiting for me when we get back to Winterfell. I also ride for freedom. I ride for my family, and for those who look to me for guidance. Or at least, I used to. I want to return home, but I fear that I cannot. Not yet. So, what do you really ride for, Ser Karstark?"

"I suppose… I ride for forgiveness. My family has wronged. My uncle murdered two children because of his lust for revenge. My grandfather betrayed the king that offered him a pardon. My uncle Cregan tried to rape my cousin. Stannis Baratheon is a fair king. He offers me forgiveness for those crimes if I give him my sword and my life."

"So you give your life for the crimes of others? Does that seem very fair to you, Ser Karstark? Your king binds you by these oaths that you swore, but you have surrendered your freedom to him. And for what? For the hope that your dead family may be redeemed? You should live your life for the living, Ser Karstark. Not trying to make the dead be any more than they are. Our lives are short, and winter is coming."

Was that advice from the singer? Should he heed it? What did this man know of freedom or service? He was sworn to Wyman Manderly after all. How could he lecture him about freedom?

He was right, though. He could serve Stannis and also live his life. This white cloak should not define his life. Aegor Stane had been so young, and that white cloak was one of the reasons why he was now dead. He had sworn his life in service to Stannis Baratheon and he had died for it.

"You should talk with the Stark boy, Karstark. He is your kin after all, and he knows more than a child that his age should. Watch out for his wolf, though. It isn't too fond of strangers."

And then Abel rode away, with no more words than those. Arthor caught Marlon's eyes. The Manderly knight was glaring in their direction. Was he suspicious of something? He hadn't trusted the man ever since Abel spoke to him after the death of his sworn brother. He found that Marlon's eyes often rested on him nowadays. It was almost as if he was always watching.

Abel had cautioned him to be wary of Shaggydog, and Arthor remembered seeing the wolf bound into the forest after that great she-wolf. He turned his horse around, and, once again, rode back to the wagons. He handed it over to one of the Tallhart men as he dismounted. He climbed into the wagon, and found that it was well occupied.

Wynafryd Manderly was sat nearest to the door, looking forlornly out at the snow. No doubt she was pining for Brandon and his return. Eddara was sat nearby, playing with a doll. His eyes met Wylla's, but she angrily avoided his gaze. She was sat at the back. The young Lord Stark was sat on the opposite side to the girls, looking down at his lap. He seated himself next to the boy.

He hadn't really talked with the boy since recovering him from the Tallhart camp. Abel spent most of the evenings singing for him and Lady Eddara, and the boy spent all the days in the wagon. Usually he was at the end, so he could be close with his wolf. Shaggydog wouldn't have fit in the wagon.

"Do you want to ride with me up front, boy?"

"No. I want Shaggy. Or Osha."

Osha? He didn't recognise the name. The boy didn't have another wolf, or any other pets for that matter.

"Who is Osha?"

"Woman. She protect me and Shaggy. She took us to island. She keep us safe."

"And where is she now?"

Rickon looked up at him then. There was anger and rage in the young boy's eyes.

"She dead. Like mother and father. They kill her."

"Who is they?"

"The mermaid man. The big one. He out there, riding with you."

Did he mean Marlon? If it was true that Marlon had killed Rickon's protector then it would surely serve as proof that the Manderlys were upto something, and that Marlon himself shouldn't be trusted. He doubted that Marlon would act like that on his own, and so he also knew that Wyman couldn't be trusted now.

Was this what Abel had meant by talk with the Stark boy? Was this what he knew? Was this the information that Abel had wanted him to have? Then a thought came to him. If Marlon Manderly had killed this Osha woman…

"Boy, do you know a Davos Seaworth?"

The boy thought for a few seconds before responding.

"Yes. He was kind man. Saved me."

"Do you know what happened to him? Did he die like Osha?"

Rickon shook his head.

"No. Big man put him in chains and took him away. Not seen him since."

So, Wyman Manderly had been lying when he had claimed that Davos Seaworth had died on the journey to Skagos. It had been Davos who had recovered Rickon Stark from the island, and had then been clasped in irons by Marlon Manderly. Maybe he was even still alive somewhere, rotting beneath White Harbor.

Rickon then bounced up and ran for the door of the wagon. Arthor looked up and saw that Shaggydog was back at the wagon door. Wynafryd was looking at the wolf with some fear in her eyes, but when he looked at Wylla he found her eyes trained on him. She looked away the moment that he looked at her. Wynafryd must have seen this, as she took Eddara's hand and led her outside, to play with Rickon and the wolf. He moved to sit opposite the younger Manderly girl.

"Why do you look at me like that?"

"Should I not? I am meant to marry a boy of five. You are handsome and strong and, most importantly, not a child."

"I didn't ask why you look at me. I asked why you look at me the way that you do? Its as if you're frightened of me, but also angry with me. I don't know why."

Wylla moved her hand to her hair, and removed a stray lock from her face. It must have been tickling at her nose.

"I'm angry at you because you swore those oaths. I'm angry because you value those words over me. I've not know you long, Ser Arthor, but winter is here and we do not have much say in who we feel close to. My grandfather tells me that he does what he does out of love for House Stark, but- But I'm not sure if I believe him. It is my duty to marry Rickon Stark, and my honour, but that does not mean that I want it."

"It is my duty to serve Stannis Baratheon. He has my life and my honour. It does not mean that is what I want, either."

Wylla looked up at him. Their eyes met for a few seconds, but then she looked away again.

"And yet you will choose your oaths and words over me. Stannis Baratheon can have you. Why are you worth the amount of time I spend thinking about you?"

He moved his rough hands to hers, and felt her dainty palms beneath his fingers.

"Because you know that I think the same of you. My words and my oaths bind me, aye, but I can be loyal to my king and to others."

"And you would be loyal to me? You would touch me and take me? You would press your lips against mine and let us interjoin together?"

He looked down at the floor of the wagon. He felt her hands pull away from his, and when he looked up she was gone, out of the wagon and into the snow. He had been too craven to forsake his vows. He had been too weak to do what he truly wanted. He would always be too craven. He would always be too weak. Wylla was better off without him.

Just then, the call of horns rang through the wagon. He left it, and trudged through the snow to see what was happening. He saw Eddara and Rickon playing with Shaggy, and Wylla and Wynafryd talking slightly away from them. He saw Ser Arton and Ser Marlon on their horses, also distracted by the sound of horns.

And then he saw the flaming hear banners of Stannis Baratheon. He saw the duelling knights of Farring, the butterflies of Horpe, the gloved fist of Glover. With them came more men and more horses. With them came Brandon Tallhart and his riders. With them came hope.

They would be at Winterfell before the night began. He knew it.


	96. The Captive Wolf

She found her hands bound behind her back. That was because she had tried to draw a knife on fat Marwyn Belmore, but she had been stopped by proud Artys Egen. She had grown to know each of her captors since she had been taken. Some of them she could see herself liking, others not so much.

Marwyn Belmore was a glutton, and a lazy one at that. He ate nearly twice as much food at dinner as anybody else. He was also weak willed and open minded. He did whatever he was told by his superiors, though he was bumbling and she had seen him drop his sword upon drawing it more than once.

Artys Egen was thin and proud, with a bristly white beard and a moustache which stuck out from his face. He was proper, too, and had chastised herself for being a feral little girl multiple times on their journey, no more so than when he had caught her trying to slit Belmore's fat throat.

Marlon Sunderland reminded her of Belmore. He was also fatter than he was fit. He had a sagging double chin, and the thin traces of a moustache above his top lip. She wasn't sure if he trimmed it, or whether he was just incapable of growing facial hair. She had never seen him wield a sword. Mostly he just did all the oddjobs around camp, such as digging a latrine or starting fires. He also liked to brag about his achievments as a sailor. She remembered that the Sunderlands were one of the houses from the Sister Islands.

That left Jon Redfort and Andrew Tollett. Jon was large and strong, with broad shoulders, and short cropped red hair. As far as she could tell, he was the best amongst them with a sword, and was Tollett's strong right hand. Belmore and Sunderland were both afraid of him. Not as afraid of him as they were of Andrew Tollett, though.

He reminded her of the Hound. He was nowhere near as strong, but he was as fierce, but in his own way. She had seen the look of darkness in his eyes. He drew joy from the pain and the shame of others. He had not touched her, none of the men had. She found that strange. Most bandits would have raped her over and over if they had got her tied up like this.

She was strapped to the back of Jon Redfort's horse today. He was one of the ones that she liked. He was kinder than Tollett, and less brash as Egen, and not as foolish as Belmore or Sunderland. He had told of his younger brother, and how he had died tracking some traitors. He hadn't told her who the traitors had been.

That story had caused her to think of her own family. She had regained her name when she left Braavos, and left the Faceless Men behind her. She had killed Harys Swyft as proof of that. She had killed Lothar and Black Walder Frey because they murdered her mother and Robb. There was still Sansa, who had betrayed their family for her beloved Joffrey, and Bran and Rickon, who had been killed by Theon Greyjoy at Winterfell. Then there was Jon. She wasn't sure what had become of her brother. That fat Night's Watch member that she had met in Braavos had told her that he was Lord Commander now. Maybe she should go to the Wall and meet him. When she had escaped from the clutches of Andrew Tollett of course.

It had taken them weeks to traverse the Riverlands, and then a couple of days to cross the mountains of the moon. The high road had been blocked off by snow, so they had relied on shepherd's passes, and routes more frequented by the mountain clans of the Vale.

They had passed through the Bloody Gate, where the Knight of the Gate, Ser Robar Shett, had welcomed them. He was new to the post, apparently, as the previous Knight of the Gate had been removed by Andar Royce. They had then journeyed to the Redfort, where Ser Jon's father had hosted them for a night, before they moved on. Now they were approaching the Royce seat of Runestone, in the farthest east part of the Vale.

She remembered Yohn Royce from a visit he had made to Winterfell. He had been a fearsome man and a strong fighter. She remembered him besting her father and Ser Rodrik Cassel. Robb and Jon had been anxious to see his fabled bronze armour, and Yohn had shown them it, laughing at the awe that the boys regarded him in. She remembered seeing him and father both knelt before the heart tree when she had been playing in the Godswood with Jon.

Soon they reached the peak of the hill, and they looked out from it and she saw Runestone for the first time. It was a mighty stronghold, with thick walls of dark stone. At the corner of each wall was a large, rounded tower. The gatehouse rose high, and she could see spears along the top of it. The keep of the castle was higher than all of these structures though, and was well protected by the thick walls.

Beyond it she could see the sea. She could smell the salt on the wind, as well as the sweat from Marlon Sunderland. It was an unpleasant combination. In the sky above them flew gulls, and their calls were loud and raucous.

They made their final approach, and she looked to the banners that flew above the gates. She recognised the runes of Royce and the bells of Belmore. She tried to remember some of the other large Vale houses from her lessons with maester Luwin. There was the black wheel of Waynwood, but she couldn't see that. The snakes of Lynderly and the stars of Templeton were also missing. The hair on her head bristled as she saw the twin towers of House Frey. What were they doing here?

As they approached, she saw the gates open, and a group of riders come out of them. They flew the banners of House Royce, and Andrew stopped them a decent way away from the castle, and they waited for the new group to arrive before they made any movements forward. When they did, the leader lowered his visor, and dismounted. Andrew did too, and they walked to meet each other in the middle.

"Andar! I did not expect you to come and greet me yourself!"

"You were sent on an important mission, Andrew. It is only right that you should report to your commander. Do you have the Kingslayer with you?"

"No… He escaped with the help of the boy and the Hunt knight. They disappeared in Maidenpool. There was nothing that I could do-"

Andar raised his hand to cut off the pleas of the Tollett knight.

"What of the brothers Wode? Did you hand them over to Edmure Tully?"

"To his castellan. A man of House Wayn. He took them off our hands. He said he would tell Edmure that it was us who delivered them."

"And the Stark girl?"

Arya shuffled as much as she could, sat behind Jon. This Andar was clearly talking about her.

"Well, no… Sansa Stark never arrived at Riverrun. We got the next best thing, though. We found Arya Stark wandering in the Riverlands."

Had he just said Sansa? Had they been sent to find her sister? Did that mean Sansa was still alive? It had to mean that she was still alive when Andrew Tollett left the Vale at least. Her thoughts of her sister were distracted by the sound of steel being drawn. She saw that Jon Redfort, Marwyn Belmore and Marlon Sunderland had all pulled their blades. Artys Egen hadn't, and looked confused. Andrew hadn't noticed.

"How have things fared in the Vale? I see Donnel Waynwood is no longer the Knight of the Gate."

"Ser Donnel is dead. As is his mother and the rest of their Waynwood kin. House Corbray are extinct as well. As are Houses Ruthermont, Lynderly and Templeton. If you look closely you can see Ser Symond's head mounted above the gates."

Andar turned and gestured towards the spears that Arya had noticed before. She now realised that they were pikes, and that mounted on them were heads.

"All Andal traitor scum. I killed Symond and Lucas Corbray myself. Father was too busy exterminating House Grafton. The Vale has been cleansed of all the major houses of Andal descent."

Ser Andrew reigned in his horse, and looked around him, only now realising that swords had been drawn.

"But-"

"I know what you're about to say, Andrew. Your house is of Andal descent, too. We remembered. Your father and brothers are already dead. You will follow them."

Andrew went to draw his sword, but Andar was too quick for him. His blade was out, and he slowly forced it through Andrew's throat, with slow and purposeful thrusts. The blade was wet with blood when it came out the back of his neck, and when it was removed, Andrew fell from his horse and into the dirt.

That was seemingly a signal for the rest of the knights, as the three of them turned on Artys Egen, and cut him down from his horse with ease. He soon fell from his saddle, too. Then they turned to the man who had murdered Andrew Tollett.

He had wiped his sword down on Tollett's corpse, and was staring at the body. There was no sadness in his eyes.

"We can add Houses Tollett and Egen to the list of extinct Andal houses then. Ser Marlon and Marwyn, remove their heads and mount them both above the gates. See that Ser Andrew is next to his father. Ser Jon, you will ride with me."

The ride from there to Runestone was not a long one. She was still partially in shock from what she had just seen, and was only half listening to the conversation between the two men.

"Ironoaks fell easily. We surrounded it, with Hunter men from the north and your father to the south. I led a small force to the Bloody Gate to see that Ser Donnel graciously stood down. Lords Coldwater and Belmore dealt with the Lynderlys, and the Hersys were destroyed by the Elsehams and the Upcliffs. That's most of the Andal houses wiped out."

"The First Men rule then?"

"Aye. We remembered, and we rose again. Only little Lord Arryn remains from House Arryn. Oswell Kettleblack turned Harry the Heir over to my father in exchange for his life. Both of them are now dead. Their heads mounted on our walls."

Arya looked up at the heads on the spikes as they passed through the gates. They were almost rotting, and some had clearly been there weeks. The eyes were empty, picked out by crows. Runestone must have made quite the feast for the crows at the moment.

"We captured her on the hill of High Heart. She was alone."

"Father will judge whether she is realty Arya Stark. It was not long since he last saw the girl, and she stuck out, if I remember correctly."

She was taken off the horse by some Coldwater men when they reached the courtyard of Runestone. They held her roughly as they guided her up some winding stairs. They were behind Ser Jon and this Andar man. At the top of the stairs, she found herself in a large solar. There was a desk in the middle of the circular room, and a separate room just off from it. A large man was sat at the desk. She recognised him as Yohn Royce. His bronze armour was mounted in the corner, and a sword was laid on the desk.

There were four other men in the room. The first of them was a large man, with bulging muscles and a serious demeanour. His nose looked as if it had been broken at least twice. His eyes were narrows. The second was a kind looking elderly man, with white hair, and a clean shaven face. His skin was covered in wrinkles, and he wore the grey robes and chain of a maester.

The third man was even larger than the first. His chest was large, and there was not a hair on his head, though he wore a grey beard. His jerkin bore the runes that were upon the Royce sigil.

The last man bore the twin towers of House Frey upon his sigil. He was a thin man, with brown hair and a weaselly chin. He was an unpleasant looking man.

"Is it done?"

"It is."

Yohn met the answer from his son by bowing his head and closing his eyes. He then looked up.

"It did not have to be this way. The Arryns forced us into this. They took away our faith. We have reclaimed that right. The Old Gods will hold the Vale from now on. I have made it so."

After Yohn had finished speaking, the large man with the bald head stepped forward. He readied himself to speak.

"House Shett have sent a rider confirming that the last male member of the Arryns of Gulltown has been slain. All that remain of that house are one woman of sixty and four years, two maidens who are yet to flower, and women who are married to uncles and cousins of First Men families. They ask for their reward."

"I have already named Royce Shett as Knight of the Gate, Uther Shett as the Lord of Gulltown, and Damon Shett as the Lord of Heart's Home. What more could they want, cousin?"

"I believe Lord Damon desires for his younger son to be made Lord of Snakewood-"

Yohn shook his head.

"Snakewood has been promised to another. Lord Coldwater's second son will take it for showing us his support. Messages the Shetts of Gulltown and thank them for their support. Tell them that they shall be rewarded in due course, but not with land or titles."

The large man nodded, and left. Arya watched him leave. He was clearly some cousin of Yohn's. or the leader of another branch of House Royce. She didn't know her Vale houses well enough to say.

"Were you successful in your mission, Ser Jon? I should introduce you. These are my two advisors, Ser Sam Stone and Helliweg, my maester. You may have heard of them by their reputation."

Yohn directed his hands towards the other large man and the elderly maester. She could tell which one was the knight and which one the scholar. These two couldn't have looked more different if they tried.

"And this is Ser Raymund Frey, who has fled his family for us, and now serves as one of my household knights. You won't have met him before."

Jon nodded at the Frey man. Arya glared at him and his weaselly face. The man didn't notice her though.

"We handed the Wode brothers over to the Tullys. Ser Jammos fled with the help of Hyle Hunt and the squire. Sansa Stark never arrived at Riverrun, though. Neither did Lothor Brune or Mya Stone, your grace."

Yohn shook his head with disappointment.

"We did however recover something else of interest."

Jon pulled Arya forward and presented her before the eyes of Yohn Royce and all those gathered in the room. Yohn looked at Jon, and then back at her.

"And this is-?"

"A girls name is Arya of House Stark. Of Winterfell. I am an emissary of Daenerys Targaryen."

She felt her skin prickle as their eyes grew more intense. Yohn studied her carefully, and then clapped his hands together.

"By the Old Gods, it is Arya Stark. I remember you from the Hand's Tourney in King's Landing, girl. Me and your father were good friends. It was a shame what happened to him. He was a good man."

"He was."

There was silence in the room then. Arya turned and looked at the Frey knight, who was cowering more than he had been before. She couldn't do anything to him. Not here. Yohn then rose from his chair, and stood before her.

"Helliweg, send a raven to all of the rulers of the Seven Kingdoms. Tell them that we have recovered Arya Stark, alive and well. Sam, go to little Lord Arryn's chambers and inform him that his cousin is here, and inform his maid that she is to get him ready for a wedding."

The two men nodded, and left the room. The large man, Sam Stone, walked with a long stride. The elderly maester went with more of a shuffle. That left Arya, Yohn, Andar, Jon, and the Frey.

"You will not be held here as my prisoner, girl. You will be allowed to do whatever it is that you like here in Runestone, but I cannot allow you to leave. Not yet. With a Stark under my roof… Well, It is about time that the First Men rose up and claimed their rightful position as Kings of Westeros. All these Andal houses… I will not have it. I will not."

Yohn moved to the window, and then turned to Raymund Frey.

"Go to the chambers of my cousin's daughter, Myranda. Tell her that she is to have a room readied for Arya Stark. We will have the wedding tomorrow. After that you can share with your new husband."

Husband? Was that what he had said? Arya almost did a double take. She glared at the Frey as he left, and then turned her attention on Bronze Yohn.

"Husband?"

"Yes. Husband. You are to be married to Robert Arryn. I will then send you north so that you may reclaim your home. As a vassal of mine, of course, since it is my army that will take Winterfell for you."

Robert Arryn was her cousin. She didn't remember meeting him before. He was the son of her mother's sister, Lysa, and Jon Arryn, who had been Hand of the King before her father.

"There is something else that I think you might want to see. Let me show you."

Yohn rose then, and made for the stairs. Jon grabbed her arm and pushed her to follow him. She went down the stairs after him, with Jon and Andar following them. When they reached the bottom, she was led across the courtyard to a smaller building. Inside were some steps, which led down, beneath the ground. It reminded her of the entrance to the crypts in Winterfell.

Yohn led them down into the darkness, with Jon and Andar holding wooden torches, which gave them only the slightest light. When they reached the bottom of the steps she realised that they were in some sort of prison. There were cells along each side of the room. They were all empty.

"The Eyrie has its Sky Cells… Well, Runestone has the opposite. Men are driven mad in the constant dark, girl. Most, anyway. Not all. Come, let me show you."

He took the torch from Jon, and strode forward. She noticed that Jon and Andar didn't follow them. She was alone with the Lord of Runestone.

They stopped in front of the furthest away cell. It was positioned at the end of the room. It was smaller than the others, crammed in at the end of the passage.

"I brought you a Stark girl. Not the one you wanted though. She's gone."

Yohn was knelt down and talking through the bars. Arya stepped closer. She couldn't see who Yohn was talking too.

"Would you like to see her…"

Yohn moved to the side, and now Arya could make out a hunched figure. When the creature looked up, she realised she knew this face. The eyes were grey and green. The face was sharp. The beard, which had been merely pointed before, had grown out, so it was now covering his chin and cheeks. His eyes were sunken now, and his face skinnier. He didn't seem quite so clever now.

"Lord Baelish."


	97. Arthor VIII

"Arya Stark has been recovered and is to be wedded to Robert Arryn, the Lord of the Eyrie, her cousin. This is signed by King Yohn Royce, the King of the Vale of Royce, the Bronze, and the Lord of Runestone."

Maester Pylos was stood before the gathered knights, lords and assorted others. Stannis was seated in the chair of the lord's solar in Winterfell. His chin was supported in his right hand, and his elbow was rested against the wooden desk. He was silent at the news that Pylos was delivering. He was reading it off a note that had arrived by raven that morning.

Murmours started to begin around the room as each group talked about the news amongst each other. Arthor did not talk. He was stood behind his king, as was Richard Horpe. The other knights of the Kingsguard were gathered in the room too, though some were not dressed in the white of the Kingsguard.

Wyman Manderly was seated, as one might expect, along with Maege Mormont, Robett Glover and Larence Snow. Hugo Wull was stood at the side with Rickard Liddle, the Umber brothers, and Rodrik Forrester. Robin Peasebury was seated along with the other southrons with Stannis, including Godry Farring and Robin Potter. Potter was of the Kingsguard, though he was off-duty at the moment.

"This is impossible. Royce must be lying. We have Arya Stark."

Godry Farring was on his feet now. His voice was loud and booming.

"Aye, we have the Ned's daughter."

Wull joined him in talking and stepping forward.

"Could the girl we have be an impostor? I believe it was you and Mors Umber who decided that she was definitely Arya Stark, Wull. Maybe-"

That was Robin Peasebury talking. He was cut off by Mors Umber and Hugo Wull making movements towards him. Godry rested his hand on the hilt of his sword as a warning.

"Friends, let us talk this through as friends, not enemies."

The attention of the three men was drawn to Wyman Manderly, for it was he who had spoken. The fat Lord of White Harbour was sat up now, a smile on his face. What did he have to be so happy about?

"We have Rickon Stark now, so what does it matter if the girl isn't who she says she is? It was Roose Bolton who claimed that she was Arya Stark. Should we trust anything that a Bolton had to say? It is more than likely that he lied, and that the girl has been tortured-"

"She still lied to her rightful king, Manderly."

There was a hard look on Farring's face as he interjected.

"If it turns out that she is a fake, then she should face the pyre. She has committed treason towards the one true king of Westeros. Lying to your king is treason. Especially with such information as this."

That was met by Robin Peasebury's applause, and mutters of support from some of the southern knights and lords that were at Farring's back. Wull turned and exchanged a look with Liddle and Umber. Maege Mormont whispered something into the ear of Wyman, who shook his head.

"The girl-"

"If it turns out that the girl is a pretender then it shall be I that decides her fate."

Stannis was now stood. His eyes swept across the crowd, and his hands were slammed against the top of the desk. Peasebury shifted under the firm gaze of his king. The man was a craven.

"You may all leave. Richard, Arthor and Theon may stay."

Many of the people that left grumbled as they did. Farring shot Arthor a look that suggested he was angry and envious. Wyman needed the support of Robett Glover to walk from the room without falling over.

When they were gone, Stannis turned his eyes onto Theon, the man that he intended to name as the regent of Winterfell now that Rickon had been named the Lord. Theon had arrived at the camp of Stannis Baratheon with the one claiming to be Arya Stark. If anyone here knew the truth about her identity then it would be him. Their king was right to address his questions to the boy.

There was the sound of feet on cold stone then, as the red woman, the Lady Melisandre, swept out of the corner where she had been stood in the shadows. Behind her swept a red dress, and she wore her red choker around her throat. Arthor saw Theon's eyes move to the red woman, before turning his attention back to Stannis.

"Who is the girl?"

"She's- She's Arya Stark."

"Tell me, who is she?"

Theon shuffled on his feet. Arthor spotted this, though Richard Horpe didn't. The red woman walked behind Theon, and then placed a hand on his shoulder and whispered something into his ear. The boy nodded, and then looked back up at Stannis.

"She is not Arya Stark. She is Jeyne Poole. The steward's daughter."

There was a few seconds of silence after that, and then that was broken when Stannis slammed his hands down on his desk. Theon flinched slightly, and Richard's hand went instinctively to his sword, but then dropped back to his side.

"So she is essentially worthless to me? What will the Northern lords care of this steward's whelp?"

Stannis moved around the table and then started to pace.

"We have the boy now, I suppose, but he is wild and uncontrollable. Robert was right. These accursed Northerners are more trouble than they know. Arthor, will they follow the Stark boy without Arya Stark in our possession?"

Arthor shifted his attention, and cocked his head slightly.

"The North will follow whoever Eddard Stark's children you present them. They want a Stark in Winterfell. Give them Rickon and they will follow you. But-"

"But if Yohn Royce gives them a better option then they might follow him instead? Rickon is a male. He is Eddard Stark's true heir."

Theon shook his head slightly, a movement not noticed by anyone but the red woman and Arthor. What did the boy know? Was there more to this story than what he had said?

"The North will not mind about true heir in southron laws. They know no Lord of Winterfell but the one who is named Stark. There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. That is what they want. All they want is a Stark to follow and a Stark to rule. Most of them anyway."

Stannis turned his eyes upon him.

"What do you mean most of them?"

"Wyman Manderly-"

Stannis took a large intake of breath and then turned away from Arthor. He went back behind his desk and sat down. He put his head in his hands and then looked back up, his eyes hard.

"I know how you feel about Lord Manderly, but right now he is necessary. He gives me the North. He gave me the Stark boy."

"But at what cost, your grace? Your Hand, Ser Davos… He disappeared-"

"He died, and his death was an incredibly sad one for me. He saved me during my brother's rebellion. I named him hand and Lord of the Rainwood because I trusted him, but Wyman Manderly did not kill him."

"Whose word do you have for that? His own? His cousin's?"

Stannis turned away from Arthor then, and looked to Richard Horpe, though it seemed more as an excuse to look anywhere else.

"I do not trust the word of Wyman Manderly alone, but nor do I believe that everything that he says is a lie. The Manderlys owe the Starks of Winterfell a great debt. I have to trust that Lord Manderly would not break this oath that he swore for his own lust for personal power and position."

Stannis spoke those words in a way that made sure everyone in the room knew that the conversation was over. He had a habit of doing that. It was just his manner of speaking.

"There is something else that we must discuss. Pylos has received news of the death of several members of House Frey at the hands of a mysterious assassin. These Northerners will welcome this news. Is that correct?"

"It is, your grace."

Richard Horpe adjusted his stance as he spoke, shifting his weight from his left foot to his right, and moving his neck so he was looking at Stannis.

"I hear Lord Wull and Mors Umber frequently lamenting the lack of Frey blood spilled in the North."

Arthor knew that this much was true. His squire, Big Walder Frey, had reported that Wull, Umber and Glover men had threatened him whilst Arthor had been absent collecting the Stark boy. He would have to deal with these issues later, and make sure that these lords told their men to back away from threatening a defenceless boy.

"Then there is another way that we can assure we have the full support of Mors Umber and his like. We will tell them that the assassin was a man sent by me. He killed these Freys to avenge the death of the treacherous Young Wolf who all these Northerners love so much."

"Who would you say that we sent south, your grace?"

Stannis adjusted himself slightly under Richard's question, and glared at the door, as if it was his sworn enemy.

"Ser Clayton? Ser Justin?"

The red woman then swept towards the table signalling that it was her turn to speak.

"Ser Clayton Suggs is too close to Godry Farring. I have told you not to trust that man. There is darkness in that man's heart. I can see it in the flames. Say that you sent one of the knights who was with your wife. Ser Patrek of King's Mountain or Ser Perkin Follard. They cannot betray your secret from beyond the grave."

Stannis nodded at that, though Arthor could see him clenching his hands into fists under the desk. This was not something that he wanted to do. It was something that he had to do.

"Very well. Tell the men that it was Perkin Follard who slew Lothar and Black Walder Frey upon my orders. That should appease these Northmen, if only for a few weeks. Meanwhile, I will reward each of you three for showing your discretion in this matter. Name what you would have and I will try my best to grant it."

"I desire lands for my brother. He is a leal servant to you, your grace, and our keep has been burned down during this war. Give us a new home."

Stannis bowed his head at Horpe's request.

"Very well. I will name your brother as the rightful Lord of Nightsong. You may leave us now, Ser Richard. Show the Lady Melisandre safely to her chambers."

Richard inclined his head and then backed away from the desk. The red woman left one lingering look at Stannis before turning and sweeping out of the room. Richard followed behind her, trying to measure his longer strides to fit with hers. That left Arthor alone in the room with Stannis and the Greyjoy boy. He was looking healthier than he had when Arthor had last seen him before he left to collect Rickon Stark.

"Spare the girl. Jeyne Poole. The steward's daughter. Spare her. She was scared. She didn't mean-"

Stannis raised his hand to indicate that Theon should stop speaking.

"I will not execute a little girl for no crime. The steward's whelp is safe. Take her into your service. This is her home, after all."

Theon nodded, and then Stannis turned his gaze onto Arthor. He disliked it when his king looked at him, for his eyes could be hard and cold, and they certainly weren't welcoming. He reminded Arthor of cold steel. He was deadly and strong, and hard to bend. Sometimes it seemed like he cut you down with just a glare, or by shifting his gaze upon you.

"And you, Ser Arthor?"

Arthor's mind raced at that. What would he want if he could have anything? A pardon for his family name? A castle and land for his father? Protection for his squire? There was only one thing that he could really think about, and that kept creeping into his mind. Her sweet face kept appearing in his eyes. He remembered the way that her green hair fell around her face and down her shoulders.

Could he ask for Wylla Manderly?

His thoughts then were interrupted by the sounds of a commotion outside in the courtyard. There were angry yells and shouts, and a woman screamed. Stannis rose to his feet, but Arthor found himself leaving the room in front of him. When he stepped outside he found that the crowd of people outside was flocking to the broken tower. He pushed his way into the crowd and through it, unsure whether his king was following him.

The crowd had gathered in a circle beneath the broken tower. He pushed his way through it, and then he spotted what was attracting all the attention. There was a body laid beneath the tower. It must have fallen from the window. The body was broken, but would have died as soon as it hit the ground.

It was only a small body, and all the bones in it would be broken. He looked down at the body of the little boy that was laid before him.

The body of Rickon Stark.


	98. Tyrion IV

Tyrion felt silly stood amongst these other highborn lords. Most of them were twice his size, and kept looking down at him, smirks on their face. Even Lady Asher, who was stood nearby, was taller than he was. He was used to it, of course, but for some reason now it felt strange. He was stood at the front of the gathered nobles, awaiting for the arrival of the one who was calling herself Rhaenys Targaryen. Ser Will Rosby and Ser Bronn had left that morning to collect her from wherever she was staying. Varys had gone with them.

So he was stood here, between Lord Selwyn Tarth, the new Master of Coin, and Ser Andrey Dalt. A knight and a lord. He was nothing next to them.

He remembered Andrey from Dragonstone, though they had little reason to get to know each other. Andrey was the brother of some lord that Tyrion had never heard of. He had no particular skill with a sword, and wasn't tremendously handsome. He had considered leaving the city with Arianne Martell, who had returned to Dorne, but had decided to stay, so as to look after Gerris Drinkwater, who Tyrion himself had imprisoned.

He swept his eyes over the gathered crowd. Rogero, the great Khal, was stood by Motho, the older one. Most of Rogero's khalasar had been destroyed, and only a few hundred remained. They weren't inside the city, for fear that they might react to the presence of Eustace Brune. Rogero was only trusted provided that Motho watched over him and assured that he kept his calm. Tyrion was slightly unsure what Daenerys expected elderly Motho to do if Rogero did lose his temper, though.

Homeless Harry Strickland was stood at the head of the Golden Company party. The man had become less homeless in recent weeks, having been promised Storm's End when the war was done. By his side were Black Balaq, Lysono Marr and Gorys Edoryen. None of them were Westerosi, but most of the Golden Company serjeants had been sent to secure holds and homesteads in the Stormlands. Tristan Rivers was somewhere here, though.

Then there were the Crownlanders who had stayed behind. Renfred Rykker was at their head. Monica Thorne and Asher Hayford stood behind them, wearing flowing dresses in the colours of their houses. Eustace Brune was present too, dressed in full military attire. He looked quite ridiculous, and stood out from the rest of them.

Daenerys and Aegon were stood in the centre of the gathering, at the head of the collection of people. They were stood close enough to demonstrate solidarity, but not close enough to suggest any intimacy. Theirs was not a marriage of any love, Tyrion sensed.

Before them were stood some of the small council. Jon Connington was stood next to Aurane Velaryon, who had been the bastard of Driftmark. Then there was the knights of the Kingsguard. Four were stood in a line. There was Dareon Lonmouth, Hugo Bolling, Jorah Mormont, and Brienne of Tarth. Bryce Cafferen and Barristan and Selmy were stood either side of the king and queen.

Tyrion shuffled on his feet, and turned to see the eyes of Asher Hayford upon him. The woman turned away, and whispered something into the ear of Lady Thorne, who laughed quietly. It barely broke the silence of the gathering, though Eustace Brune still shot her a disapproving look.

Tyrion himself was gathered in a fairly miscellaneous collection of people. His brother was stood behind him, and Andrey and Selwyn were on either side. Somewhere nearby was little Lord Corlys Velaryon and his younger brother Monterys, as well as Daario Naharis, the Essosi sellsword, and some of the men from the Windblown, though the Tattered Prince had been sent Essos to join with the Prince of Pentos in fighting Myr and Lys.

"We have been waiting too long for this mummer's dragon, your graces. Why should we believe that there is any Rhaenys Targaryen coming here? On the words of a traitor and his accomplices."

Harry Stricklands stepped forward as he spoke, until he was stood in front of the king and queen. Tyrion spotted Brienne moving her hand to the hilt of her sword, as if she expected Strickland to attack the king and queen that he had helped to crown. The wench was a hasty one.

"Agreed."

It was Rogero who stepped forward next. Tyrion noticed that Motho made no effort to stop him.

"These are strangers. They may have left to bring in an assassin into our midst. Why should we trust them? One of them has betrayed us like a treacherous dog already. Your trust is misplaced, your graces."

It was a strange sight to see Harry Strickland and Rogero stood together. Strickland called himself a Captain-General, but he was no warrior. Bittersteel would be bitter indeed to see this man representing his beloved Golden Company.

"If my sister is alive then I must meet her."

Aegon stepped forward and past the Kingsguard. He stopped in front of the two men that had stepped forward.

"And then talk with her. I am the rightful King of these Seven Kingdoms, and Daenerys is my Queen, but the dragon of Targaryen has three heads for a reason. If a third of us has survived… Then I must meet her. I trust Lord Renfred. His family owes mine a great debt."

That silenced Rogero and Strickland. Tyrion could understand why Rogero would object to the faith that was being shown in the Crown Lords, but Strickland had no reason to distrust them. Perhaps this was some sort of political play that the man had concocted, or maybe he was just worried that a new Targaryen arriving threatened his chances of ever making his seat at Storm's End. After all, the first Baratheon had been rumoured to have been a Targaryen bastard. Maybe Aegon would change his mind and grant Storm's End to his sister. If she turned out to be real.

"The girl was brought to my attention a few months ago. She had been fostered by Gyles Rosby after being saved. She was his ward. After Gyles died she took control."

Renfred had stepped forward too, and was stood behind Aegon. He was wearing a jerkin of blue, that was lined with red fabric. Some of the colours of the Rykkers of Duskendale.

"After I heard, I abandoned the army I was attached to with my troops and returned home. I have always been loyal to the dragon of Targaryen, as was my father. I would not lie to a Targaryen king."

Rogero looked down on Renfred Rykker with disdain in his eyes.

"Where was your loyalty to House Targaryen when I was at your door asking for your men to support my Queen? You turned me away and then your friends murdered my people."

"Your people were rampaging across our lands. They burned farms and raped wives and daughters. We were defending our people."

Asher stepped forward and stood beside Renfred. Rogero growled as the woman approached.

"You killed them in their sleep. That is what you call defending your people? Brutal murder?"

"As if the Dothraki are innocent of brutal murder, Khal Rogero. Did the Khals that died before you left from Essos die in their sleep too? What of the men that died at Qohor? I am sure that you were innocent of their deaths, too."

There was tension in the air. Tyrion spotted a couple more men reaching for the hilts of their sword, including Barristan Selmy, Eustace Brune and Lysono Maar. It was Daenerys who stepped forward next, and put her hand in Aegon's.

"Rhaenys is the daughter of my brother, Rhaegar, who was beloved by this Kingdom. She will be welcomed in, and with her come the Crown Lords. We will accept all of them in and together we shall become more powerful."

That was met with more silence. It was less tense though, and hands moved away from their swords. Strickland and Rykker returned to their places, with Renfred taking Lady Hayford with him. Then, the sound of a gate opening echoed through the courtyard. The gathered crowd turned their attention towards the sound, and were met with the sight of a parade of horses and banners. They flew the sheep of House Stokeworth, the Chevrolets of Rosby, two crossed axes beneath a dark crown, and a host of other Crownlands bannermen.

At the head of the parade was the three headed red dragon of House Targaryen, and beneath it rode Varys and Bronn, joined by Ser Will Rosby, though he was now riding a red stallion and wore battle armour of a dark brown colour, more in the style of the North than the south. The three men dismounted, and bent the knee before the Queen. Ser Barristan stepped forward with Daenerys, and stood beside her.

"Presenting Lord Varys, Lord Bronn of the Blackwater, the Lord Protector of House Stokeworth, and Ser Will-"

"My name is not Will Rosby."

The man rose from his knees, and Tyrion noticed the yellow cloak that he wore upon his back. It was held together by a pin made of twinned axes. His must be the banner that Tyrion hadn't recognised earlier.

"I am William Dustin, the former Lord of Barrowton. I fought in Robert's Rebellion, and was there when Arthur Dayne was killed. I was tasked with looking after Rhaenys when we discovered that she was still alive. I took her to Gyles Rosby and stayed with her, and taught her all she needed to know about war and fighting, whilst the Rosby maester taught her about her history, religion, and politics."

Barristan turned and looked at Daenerys and Aegon. It was the king that nodded, and Barristan turned back to the man.

"Then this is William Dustin…"

"You fought for Eddard Stark in the rebellion. You fought against my father and for the Usurper. Yet you come here and boast of it."

"Aye, I did all of that. Then I gave the best part of my life away from my home defending House Targaryen. I think I have done more than enough to be given some forgiveness."

There was an intense look shared between Daenerys and Lord Dustin. Tyrion didn't envy the man. He would not wish to be an enemy of a woman that could be as volatile as Daenerys, and who had dragons to boot. Eventually, however, Daenerys averted her eyes from the man. Tyrion furrowed his brow. That seemed out of character for the dragon queen. Had she learned to be merciful to those who opposed her? When did that happen.

A horse then came riding forward. It was a silver mare, with a mane of white hair. Astride it sat a girl, with the copper skin and dark hair of Dorne. She wore riding clothes of black and red, which made her look like a warrior. Tyrion noted that she wore the black as her main colour, with a red trim around it.

William rushed to her side, and offered her a hand as she dismounted, which she took. The girl then dusted herself off, and walked to stand in front of Daenerys and Aegon, with Varys, Bronn and William at her back. There was an uncomfortable moment as the three Targaryens shared a look. Tyrion spotted that Eustace Brune held his hand on his sword hilt, and that Lysono Maar had disappeared from the crowd. He was distracted then as Selwyn Tarth shuffled his feet nervously.

"So this is my long lost brother? And my aunt who has taken him as her husband?"

Tyrion could see Daenerys bristle at that comment, though it was not her that stepped forward to speak.

"And this is my sister. My name is Aegon, the sixth of my name. You are Rhaenys, my sister?"

"That I am, brother. Many years ago our ancestor, Aegon the Conqueror, took his sister Rhaenys as his wife. Now we are reunited together here in this city, will you be bold enough to follow in his footsteps?"

Tyrion watched as Aegon turned and looked quizically at Lord Connington. The girl was forward, he would give her that. He had made the boy king uncomfortable, that much was clear.

"I am afraid to say that I am already married, dear sister-"

"Yes. So I hear. To our aunt. Still, ours is the song of ice and fire, dear brother, and the dragon must have three heads."


	99. The Mourning Princess

Arianne moaned slightly as her cousin's nimble finger caressed her inner thigh. Their lips met, as they sat on the bed. Elia had gotten much better at this since they shared their first kiss at Griffin's Roost. She knew exactly where to put her tongue. Exactly how much biting caused Arianne to moan. They had been doing this even more since they started to make their return. They didn't share a room at the castles that they stayed in, but Elia would slip in from down the corridor whenever she got the chance, so that they could practice.

Arianne moved her own hand down to Elia's and took it, placing it on her right breast, allowing Elia to feel her hard, dark nipples. Elia blushed then, and pulled her hand away.

"You have to be able to do that without blushing. You won't ever get a girl between your legs if you can't even touch her nipples."

Elia blushed, and Arianne moved to sweep some of her dark hair away from her face. She felt bad for Elia. The younger Sand Snakes had never built the same reputation as the elder ones had. She was perpetually forgotten. Now Tyene and Nymeria were dead, and Obara and Sarella were both missing. She was suddenly the eldest of her father's daughters. That must be a strange experience. To go from being the fifth daughter to being the first overnight.

They had all experienced loss, of course. Trystane had died in that fire, along with the Princess Myrcella, as had uncle Manfrey and his wife. Granted, she had never been close to Trystane, but he was still her brother. She had seen him grow up, and now his life had been snuffed out in one cruel moment.

Uncle Manfrey had been a good man, but too rigid and considered himself too honourable. She remembered when she was younger he would let her practice with wooden swords whenever her father was away.

And then there was Tyene and Nymeria. She had been less close with the elder Sand Snake, but Nymeria had still sometimes joined them in their games and adventures. Tyene, though… Tyene had been her best friend growing up. They had done everything together. They had even practiced kissing on one another, as she was doing with Elia now. Kissing Elia… It helped her remember her best friend and what she had been like.

"I'm sorry, Arri. Can we start again? I can be better."

"You were doing great, Eli. You just need to be more confident and more open. Here, let me try something."

Arianne got up and moved Elia to the edge of the bed. The girl lacked the confidence of Tyene or Lady Nym. Maybe she wasn't meant to be in control. She walked a few steps away and then turned to look at her cousin. Her arms were by her side and she was slouched. Her breasts were not large anyway, but they looked even flatter right now, and her legs were closed tight together. She couldn't look Arianne in the eyes.

"Lean back, Eli. Let your hands support you. That pushes your breasts out and makes them look better. Good girl."

Elia did what Arianne suggested, and then looked up as if seeking approval. She looked more attractive now, more confident, and her eyes held an innocence that, to her own surprise, made Arianne start to wetten between her thighs. She walked over to her cousin, her hips swaying and her breasts bouncing as she did, and kissed her lightly on the lips, spreading her legs wide with her soft hands.

She pushed Elia back down onto the bed, and climbed on top of her, kneeling over her legs so that her southern lips were exposed. She then started to stroke her cousin's innocence with her fingers, slow at first and then faster. Elia whimpered and moaned, which just made Arianne want her more.

She did this until Elia climaxed and released her juices all over the sheets. That pushed Arianne to her own peak, and then the moaning subsided. She got off her cousin and rolled over so that she was lying next to her. She turned and found Elia looking at her.

"Thank you, Ari. It means a lot that you're supporting me and helping me like this."

Arianne smiled at her cousin, and gave her a peck on the lips, the last of the evening.

"We are friends Eli, and family too. What else are friends for?"

Just then, she was interrupted by a knock on the door. It was a late hour. Who could this possibly be?

Elia knew the drill by now. She got up quickly and slipped into the riding clothes she had been wearing that day, before they had come up to Arianne's chambers. She did the same, and then went to answer the door.

Outside was stood Daemon Sand, her sworn shield. He was a handsome man, and one of the deadliest swordsmen that Dorne had to offer. He was also very sullen. Arianne found him attractive, and not just because they had once been lovers, but the bastard wouldn't reciprocate her feelings. He had been spurned by her father when he had asked for her hand, and had never really recovered from the rejection.

"Ser Daemon, I was not expecting you so late as this?"

A part of Arianne hoped that her knight had come to ravish her over and over. She was still wet from the way that Elia had looked at her earlier, and now her handsome protector had come? She would take him and he would take her. As it was meant to be.

"The feast downstairs has ended, my Princess. Lord William wishes to see you in his solar. They've found a body in the mountains."

A body? Why did that mean that William needed to speak with her? Was it someone she knew?

"Then take me to him, Ser Daemon."

And then when we get back you can take me, if you like, she thought. She then turned to Elia, who was stood meekly in the room.

"I shall not be gone long, Eli. Keep the fire going and wait here for me. We can talk some more when I get back."

Elia nodded, and so Arianne turned away and started to follow the steps of Daemon Sand, trying to stop her eyes from wandering and looking at his tight arse as he walked. She failed mostly at this, but her gallant knight didn't notice, of which she was thankful for. She had always hated having to explain herself and justify her actions. Her father had made her do it all the time.

When he had received the request for marriage from Daemon, her father had not reacted angrily or upset. In Dorne it was acceptable and encouraged for women to explore their sexuality before marriage. He had sat her down and talked to her about why a bastard wasn't a fitting partner for the future Princess of Dorne. Daemon had become Oberyn's squire and had spent most of his life wandering with the Red Viper, far away from Arianne and Sunspear.

Recently her father had told her that she had been secretly betrothed to Prince Viserys Targaryen, and that he had been plotting to crown the dragon again, with her serving as his queen. Maybe that was why he had rejected Daemon's proposal, and nothing to do with his standing as a bastard. Maybe now it would be different.

Her thoughts of Daemon were cut off by her arrival at the solar of Lord William Wyl. The man was not unpleasant, though she didn't enjoy spending time with him. He had a stubbly yellow beard, but a bald spot beneath his chin. He was not obese, but he was certainly not skinny, and he was not built for combat. His solar was covered in snake motifs, representing the adder that appeared on the Wyl family crest.

Inside the solar were two more men. One of them recognised as Ser Tyberos, the Master at Arms of this castle, who also served as captain of the guards. Wyl was only a small castle and held a small garrison. Tyberos had been a hedge knight before, but had come into the service of Lord William some four years ago. He had told her all about it on the first night of their stay.

The other was a pallid and clammy looking man who must be past his sixtieth year, at least. She didn't recognise him from the castle any of the previous nights. Mayhaps he was the dead body that they had found. He did have the look of a corpse about him.

"Ah, Princess Arianne. I am glad that you could join us at this late hour. I am sure that Ser Daemon has already told you, but we have recovered a body from the mountains. It was discovered near one of the Vulture's Temples. We thought that you may want to see it. Bring it in, Tremond."

The corpse looking man nodded at that, and left the room through a second door. When he returned, he was with two other men, who were carrying a body underneath a white sheet. They laid it down on the desk. Arianne wondered why the old man had been necessary in the first place. Maybe it was him that found the body. The name didn't ring a bell, save for Tremond Gargalen, who had been one of her father's bannermen.

The sheet was pulled away and revealed the body beneath it. She did recognise the figure. She recognised the handsome face and the aquiline nose. She recognised the high cheekbones and the strong jaw. She recognised the silvery hair and the black streak that ran through it. This was the body of Gerold Dayne, the Darkstar, who had been one of her fellow plotters to crown Myrcella Baratheon as Queen. How long ago that now seemed.

The face was not exactly how it had been before. The nose was broken and bent out of shape, and his skin was covered in cuts. The clothes he was wearing were torn and destroyed, and the bones his arms, legs, and torso seemed to be badly broken.

"He was killed by a fall from a high place. Most likely the Vulture's Temple. I am sending men out there now to see what we can find there. We should look to find out why Gerold Dayne was hiding in these mountains."

"He was hiding from my father, Lord William. It was the Darkstar that attacked and maimed Myrcella Baratheon. My father wanted to bring him to justice, but Gerold ran and cowered in the red Mountains like a craven. One of my father's men must have tracked him down and brought justice upon him. Ser Balon Swann and my cousin Obara, maybe."

William looked at her with huis dumb eyes, and then looked to Daemon and Tyberos in turn.

"I had heard tell of a knight of the Kingsguard and a Sand Snake were in these parts, but that was weeks ago. They did not pass through Wyl, I can assure you of that, Princess. If they were in these mountains so long ago, then why only now do we find the body?"

The fool made a good point, but Arianne didn't have an answer for his question. Maybe Gerold had been hidden very well, or maybe it had not been they who killed him. Someone else perhaps… Someone else with a reason to kill the Darkstar of High Hermitage. There would be plenty of them across Dorne. Gerold had never been someone who concerned himself with the opinion of others, and his brash personality had a tendency to rub people up the wrong way. She had liked him at one point, but now she could see that he had been mean, cruel and arrogant. More full of himself than full of any capacity to love someone that wasn't himself.

"Mayhaps he simply fell, my Lord."

That was Tyberos. It was a possibility worth thinking about, though she doubted that it could be the case. Ser Gerold had always been quick on his feet, and nimble too. She doubted that he would simply fall to his death from a plateau the size of the one where the Vulture's Temple sat. No, that cannot have been why Gerold Dayne was now dead. There must be some other reason that Gerold had fallen.

"That is a possibility that we should consider, Ser Tyberos. Indeed, I think it is likely that this is the case. Yes, the Darkstar must have fallen to his death. He was not killed by some other. Why would they have thrown him to his death? Why not just simply stab him? No. He must have fallen."

That was William Wyl. The meeting did not last long after this. She swept out of the room, followed by Ser Daemon. It was late, and she was tired.

Elia was curled up on her bed when she returned to her chambers. She was asleep. Arianne turned to Daemon who was stood in the door.

"Do you wish to come in, my knight?"

"I- I'm not sure, my Princess. Your father-"

"My father is not here right now. I am. Do you not want me? Do you not want me like you used to have me? Over and over?"

He hesitated for a few seconds. And then pushed her into her room, and k9issed her deep and passionately, his hands dancing over her ass and her breasts. When they pulled away, they were greeted by the site of Elia looking at them. Arianne moved to the bed, and kissed her cousin gently, before pulling Daemon Sand down and moving Elia's lips to his.

Daemon then fell down onto the bed, and Arianne and Elia helped to remove his clothes. First his breeches, and then his jerkin, until Daemon was left laid on the bed with no clothes against his tanned, Dornish skin. His nipples were pink, though, and they hardened as she ran her hands over them. She turned to Elia.

"I'm going to fuck him now, Eli. Leave us alone, and we can practice again tomorrow."

Elia nodded, and then left the room. Arianne knew that she wouldn't want to be involved with fucking Daemon. She didn't like men. She liked women. She looked down at her sworn sword, and smiled. She remembered how much of a man Daemon Sand was, and she jumped on him, kissing him deeply as her hand moved to his length, stroking it gently at first, before then speeding up.

She then sat down on the throbbing length, spearing herself on it. She groaned and moaned as she rode it, and eventually Daemon reached his climax inside her. She found her own as she felt his seed release into her, and paint her insides white. Her own juices leaked out of her and she kissed him again.

This was what she had always wanted. Daemon inside her. She loved him.


	100. Bran VI

The cold winds blew around Bran Stark, but he didn't shiver. These were the winds of winter. With them came screams and sorrow. With them came the restless dead, who could not be stopped by mere men. With them came the icy Others, who he had seen first hand, who were here for humanity.

Around them were the large blocks of ice that had once made up the Wall. He had watched it fall. He had seen the magic break, as a sword was plunged deep into the heart of the sacrifice, who had come like a lamb to the slaughter. He had watched the white wolf walk through the ruins. He had once been his brother. Now he was his enemy. Behind him walked an army of the dead. The Night's Watch and the wildlings finally united, even if it was in death.

Bran was pulled through the snow by Meera. As he did, he leant out of his sled, and felt his hand run through the snow, feeling the cold wetness dance beneath his fingers. He scooped some of it up, and felt it melt in his hands. That was what everything in the world did. It always slipped away from between your fingers.

That thought reminded him of past friends.

He thought of fierce Osha, who had gone with his brother. He had seen her death. She had been betrayed by the merman of Manderly. He thought of Maester Luwin and brave Ser Rodrik. They had given their lives to House Stark, and had then given their lives for House Stark as well. He thought of Harwin, of Hullen, of Fat Tom and of Gage, of Old Nan and Vayon Poole. Most of them were now dead, or else he had lost them in his visions.

He thought then of Hodor, the gentle giant whose mind he had abused. Hodor had been a good spirit, if a simple one. He had lived his life as Bran's truest friend, but had died his enemy, possessed by the enemy, and sent to kill him. Leaf had killed him. She was dead now, too, as were the other Children of the Forest in the Three Eyed Crow's cave. They may have been the last of their race, but they had died for him.

Then there was the Ranger and Ser Alliser, who had both sworn their life to the black of the Night's Watch. The Ranger had served his oath many lives over. He had looked for him in his visions. The man was centuries old. He had been cursed to serve as the eternal guardian of the Wall, although Bran had been unable to see what crime he had actually committed. His watch was ended now, though.

Of course there had been others. Jojen had been his friend, but he lived on in his visions. He was not truly gone. Not yet, anyway. He had met Samwell Tarly in the ruins of the Nightfort. He had been sad to see the man dying in the way that he did. Dying so that the Wall may fall.

Uncle Benjen had once told him that the brothers of the Night's Watch said that the Wall wept when it started to melt in the intense heat. Somehow it managed to stay standing. Even through the warmest and longest summers. Seemingly that was only so that it could fall now, during the coldest winter that Westeros had ever known. The Wall had well and truly wept now, and the army of the dead was beyond it. Westeros would bleed more than it ever had before if he had his way. The watcher beyond the Wall. He was here.

Meera dragged the sled onwards, into the ruins of what had once been Castle Black. It was little more than rubble now, destroyed by the army when it had passed through. Bran had seen it happen. He had seen them all. The dead and their masters, though one had taken no joy from this destruction, for this had been his home once. He did not relish seeing it returned to the rubble that it had once been. Still, everything had to return to what it once was eventually. With so few brothers in black here to man the Wall it was bound to fall sooner or later. Now there was none. The Night's Watch was as good as dead.

The Starks of Winterfell had always had a strong relationship with the black brothers of the Wall. Many Starks had served as Lord Commander of the Night's Watch purely because of their relationship to a King in the North, or a Lord of Winterfell. Many others had served on the wall, with a lot of them rising to the posts of First Ranger, First Builder, or First Steward. Karstarks and Greystarks had served on the Wall, too. It was a sign of honour.

Suddenly Bran felt a searing pain enter his head, and then darkness shrouded him. Soon it was replaced by a large hall. Near the top was an old man wearing black robes. He was joined in the room by countless other men, all dressed in black. Some wore furs and other fineries, whilst some did not. Many of them wore swords at their hip. He sensed that this wasn't Castle Black, though the room felt familiar to him. He walked to the front of the room, and saw that two men were stood behind the old man. Both wore gazes that stared off into the distance.

They both had long faces and long, dark brown hair. One of the men, the one stood closest to Bran, was thinner of build, with hollow cheeks and piercing icy blue eyes. There was evil in this man. Bran could sense that just by looking at him. The other had a wider face, with sadder eyes that were dark brown, but not so that they looked black. He wore a wolf pin to clasp his cloak around his neck.

"Settle down, settle down."

Bran turned, and found that the old man was now talking to the gathered crowd. He could see a sense of anxiousness in the eyes of some of these men, whilst others quaffed at their mead and ale from large flagons.

"As you all know, we are down to our final two candidates to become the next Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. They are your Frist Steward, Rorman Bolton, and your Frist Ranger, Brandon the Bold, of House Stark."

Bran furrowed his eyebrows as he heard those names. He had never heard of a Brandon the Bold who served as Lord Commander of the Watch, and Old Nan had told him all the stories of famed namesakes of his. He had heard of Brandon the Builder and Brandon the Burner, but never this man. Nor had he heard the name Rorman Bolton.

"I can now reveal that your next Lord Commander is Brandon Stark."

That news was met with raucous applause from some, and a small sound of disappointment from elsewhere in the gathered crowd. Bran sensed that their hadn't been much of a contest between the Bolton and the Stark man. He watched as Brandon stepped forward and silenced the crowd.

"Brothers, it is an honour to be chosen to lead you. Though our order is still young we all remember what lies north of the Wall. We have all chosen to give our life to make sure that what happened before never happens again. We have given our life and our honour to the Night's Watch for this night and all the nights to come. I will take no crown and take no wife. I will lead you as well as I am capable, as your thirteenth Lord Commander."

More applause came from the gathered brothers. The scene that had been unfolding before Bran's eyes then broke up, though the sounds of cheering stayed. Soon the scene was replaced with another, and Bran was stood in a smallish room. The man from before, Brandon, was sat at his desk, and two men stood before him. There stood a woman in the corner, her hand was placed on her stomach.

"What message does it send to the men? You swore your oath in front of the sacred heart tree, and yet here you are, sleeping with this woman."

Bran recognised the high cheeks and icy eyes of the Bolton man from before. The men stood beside him nodded as he spoke. This was a new man, unfamiliar to Bran. His face was fatter than the others, and he wore a semblance of a beard, though it was little more than greying stubble, truth be told.

"First Builder Royce and I agree that-"

"I do not care for your opinions. They are not of my concern. I have only klept the two of you in your positions because you have supporters, but the more men that this winter claims, the fewer supporters you have. What use are of you to me now?"

Royce and Bolton exchanged a look, and then Bolton turned back to the Stark Lord Commander. Bran watched on with baited breath. What would happen next.

"I- We-"

The Bolton man stumbled for his words, but none seemed to come. The Royce man looked unsure as to if he should speak now. Just then, two men of the Watch, bundled up in their black cloaks, entered the room. They each grabbed the two men by the shoulders and started to drag them from the room. Bolton tried to put up a fight, but Royce just seemed to look confused.

"Your nephew won't protect you from this- When he hears- You'll be done- He will hear- You won't get away with any of this!"

And then Bolton was gone from the room. Brandon Stark turned to the woman in the corner, who stepped forward and out of the shadows. It must have been her that Bolton had been talking about. The woman that the Lord Commander had taken to bed.

The woman was pale of skin, almost deathly pale, with lips that were almost an icy blue. Her eyes were the same colour as Bolton's, but instead of an icy cold, they shimmered like light reflecting off snow. Her breasts were not large, and she wore a simple gown of white that covered most of her body. Her hair was long and blond, and fell past her shoulders. It was straight, and not curled. She walked with a sway to her step.

The Lord Commander took her in his arms and gave her a long, passionate kiss. When they separated, Brandon saw that the woman had a slight smirk on her lips, where the brother of the Watch looked besotted.

"You did what you had to do. They would have brought you down, and me, too. Everything that we are working towards for us, and for our son."

The Lord Commander placed his hand on the woman's stomach and smiled.

"If I have to do this for our son then I shall. No man shall stop me. Not any of my brothers, and not my nephew either. I am the King of the Wall, and you shall be my Queen. The Night King and his queen."

"Then sacrifice those who have spoken against you, my love. Let them die so that those who are loyal to you may live through this winter. That is the choice you must make. For me, and for your son."

The Lord Commander looked around the room. For a second, Bran thought that his eyes fell on him, though they quickly moved away. They couldn't see him. Sometimes they could hear him, but only ever as a voice on the wind. He then turned back to the woman, and kissed her lips gently, and then pulled away.

"It shall be done, my love. I am your king. I am the one true king. My nephew be damned."

The scene then broke away, and Bran looked out over the darkness again. It wasn't replaced with another room, and he started to back up, his breathes quickening. Then he found himself backed up against a cold, wet wall. Soon the darkness was broken by a torch of fire carried towards him. With it came the man from earlier, the Lord Commander. He walked alone, with a bundle under his arm, and the torch in his other hand. He stopped in front of Bran, and revealed a door with the face of a great weirwood.

Bran remembered this from his journeys. He had passed through this gate with Samwell Tarly. That was at the Nightfort, so that must be where they were now. That could be the only possibility.

"Who are you?"

The gate spoke. The Lord Commander spoke in response.

"I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers. I am the shield that guards the realms of men."

"Then pass."

The gate started to open then, until there was nothing but wrinkles in the icy walls. Beyond where the gate had been stood a humanoid figure. It was cold and beautiful at the same time, with icy blue eyes and pale skin. It was tall and gaunt, and cocked it's neck as the Lord Commander stepped forward.

"I bring it. Gods help me, I bring it. Do not harm me."

The creature laughed in a sound that wasd foreign to Bran. It was playful and singsong, yet also harsh and unforgiving. Not the kind of laugh that you expected from a creature of death and destruction.

The man handed over the bundle that he had been carrying. When the creature took it, he pulled away the black cloak that wrapped up whatever it was. Bran took a step closer, and realised that it had been a babe, wrapped up in the cloak to protect it from the cold. It made no sound, and neither did the creature as it turned and left. The gate closed, and the Lord Commander fell onto his knees, sobbing.

He was the last thing of the scene that remained when it vanished into darkness, and soon he was gone too. He was replced by another scene. This time they were stood atop the Wall, looking out over the Haunted Forest. Bran could hear the sound of people coming from the trees. They were battle cries and celebrations of victory, even before a battle had been fought.

He turned to his right, and realised that the man stood beside him was the Lord Commander from before. His face was weathered now, and thinner too. There were wrinkles on his brow. How long had it been? Thirty years? That was how much older he looked now.

"Do you feel it in your bones, boy? War is coming. I can feel it. None of us will survive it. Death comes for us all in the end. For some he comes sooner than others. For some he comes too soon."

Was the man talking to him? No, that wasn't possible. They could hear him, yes, but they never responded. They couldn't. Could they?

"I sense it too, father."

Bran turned to his left, and found another figure stood there. It was a boy, no more than thirteen years. His skin was pale, but he still wore the same Stark features. His face was long and his hair dark brown. His eyes weren't brown though, but a queer blue colour. It was darker than the blue eyes that the woman had, but not so dark as to be a regular blue.

"Thirteen sons I have had with your mother, boy. You were the first. You were the one she let me keep. The others- Well you know what happened to them."

The Lord Commander placed a hand on the shoulder of his son, as if to reassure him.

"Fifty thousand wildlings come under their King-Beyond-The-Wall, Joramun. Thirty thousand more follow my nephew, Brandon, south of the wall. We have one thousand loyal men. It is not enough. We will die today, your mother, too."

"Now is our time, father."

"You are a good boy, Ben. You know what must be done, and you do it. Just like your father. Come, let us ready ourselves below."

The two descended the Wall then, in silence, and with a father's arm wrapped around the shoulders of his son. Bran almost felt pity for the man, even though he knew what he had done.

The Thirteenth Lord Commander had been the Night's King, who had betrayed his oath and his family. He had turned to worship the Others, and had sacrificed his brothers to the winds of winter. He had his name wiped from history for his crimes. Nobody had known his true identity. Until now.

Bran's head started to ache then. He heard calls of names. Brandon the Betrayer they called him from their armies, as they charged against the walls and the gates of the Nightfort. Brandon the Butcher. Brandon the Boy-Killer. Brandon the Black.

Their chants were met with deaf ears, as Brandon and his son defended their home. He saw the Lord Commander curt down countless wildlings and Northmen. Bran saw lords of Bolton, Karstark, Umber, and Dustin all fall at the hands of the man, whose sword whistled through the air with vicious fury. Men collapsed before him, but it could not last.

First a crossbow bolt pierced in between his greaves, and went through his lower leg. Then a wild sword slash nicked against his right arm, though the man who swung it soon fell. Then an attack from a sword caught him from behind, and slashed the back of his knees. With a roar of defeat the big man collapsed forward, and onto his knees, surrounded by piles of the dead.

Bran saw a figure stride through the battle, dressed in flawless, shiny plate armour, a grey cloak flying behind him. He approached the kneeling Lord Commander, who bared his teeth in a grimace of defiance.

"Now you come. Now that it is done."

"Aye, uncle. Now I come."

The man removed his helmet to reveal the long face, dark hair, and dark eyes of a Stark of Winterfell. He walked over until he was stood in front of the thirteenth Lord Commander. A man rushed forward and handed him a blade. It was taller than a man might be, and thicker than a boy's head. It reminded Bran of his father's blade, Ice.

"My name is Brandon Stark, The Lord of Winterfell and King in the North, I sentence you, Brandon Stark, the thirteenth Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, to die, as penance for your crimes against the realm. Do you have any final words, uncle?"

"What I did for love. For the love of my wife. For the love of my son. Do your duty, nephew, but be cursed. My name and my blood shall not die today. One day my sons shall come again, and then your line shall end. Only then will this curse be lifted."

The Lord Commander bowed his head then, and closed his eyes as he prepared for death. Just then Bran spotted a blur and a scream. The son, Ben, was charging at the armoured Lord of Winterfell, a knife drawn. It was a child's weapon.

The Lord Commander lifted his head, and called out to his son.

"No! No! Stop! Benjen!"

Bran's vision started to fade as he watched the pure fear in the father's eyes as he in turn watched his only son be skewered on the end of the blade. I saw the shock on the face of the Lord of Winterfell as he watched the boy fall to the ground, whimpering and choking on his own blood. As darkness surrounded him he heard the roar of a father that had lost everything.

And then he was back in the snow, back amongst the ruins of the fallen Wall, the roar of hatred still stuck in his ears. He saw a figure striding towards him, dressed all in black. He half expected it to be the thirteenth lord Commander, back from the dead to enact the revenge that he had told his nephew about as his final words.

The figure crouched down and ran his hands through the snow, feeling it beneath his fingertips. For a second Bran was certain that he could see the body of the Night King's eldest son laying there, blood staining the snow red, but then it was gone.

Instead, there was just this figure, dressed all in black and staring down at the snow. Bran took a step closer to the man, and the figure looked up. Their eyes met. He knew that he was here. The man took a few steps closer, his hood falling back in the wind. Bran gasped, and the figure swiped out for him, and then the scene was gone.

He was back where he had been before, in the sled, with Meera watching over him. He was breathing deeply, though she hadn't noticed. He knew who the enemy was.

Uncle Benjen.

 _*Wow. That was intense, right? I don't know about you but my emotions were all over the place writing this. So many different things to feel, plus that reveal at the end. Wow. So, this is chapter 100. Oh my gosh, i never thought I'd get this far. There's stilla while to go. At least thirty more chapters, and new ones get added all the time. So strap in, enjoy, and thank you to everyone still reading.*_


	101. The Lordly Lion

Martyn Lannister woke up in his chambers. This was the Lord's bedroom, and aside it was the Lord's solar. They were his rooms now, though he felt out of place here. This was where uncle Tywin had slept, and where he had had consulted his closest advisors, including Martyn's father, Kevan Lannister. Now his father and uncle Tywin were both dead, killed by his cousin, Tyrion, or that was what the ravens sent from King's Landing had said.

They weren't the last Lannisters to die either. Cousin Daven had been killed in the Riverlands by Lords Blackwood and Bracken, and Edmure Tully had thrown old Damion Lannister to his death from the top of the Rock. Then there was Martyn's elder brother, Lancel, who had been killed by the undead Gregor Clegane in King's Landing, fighting on behalf of the Faith of the Seven. Their father had lamented to Martyn about Lancel's sudden religious turn when last they had met. That had been one of the last conversations that they had held together.

Uncle Tywin had made the golden lion of the Rock feared again across Westeros when he destroyed the rebellious lion of Reyne, but now they had been brought to their knees. There were others. Lannisport had received a raven claiming that a cousin of their branch, Theomore Lannister, had died of pox. He had been serving as maester at White Harbor, and Rosamund Lannister had been one of those killed in the great fire of King's Landing.

Tywin. Kevan. Lancel. Daven. Rosamund. Theomore. Damion. Genna. His own twin brother. They were the lions that had been brought down by their enemies. They had died for this, so that the golden lion may lose everything in this war, and to one of their own, no less. The destruction of King's Landing had removed any power that the Lannisters hoped to hold, and it was Cersei Lannister that had engineered it, killing her own kin and her own daughter in the process.

She had done much more than lost them a claim on the Iron Throne and a position of power in the realm. She had lost them their authority and power in their own region. Edmure Tully's campaign against the West had seen many rich, old and powerful houses sacked. Many of them now refused the orders of Casterly Rock. They were not in open rebellion. Not yet anyway. It would only be a matter of time.

He did not have the same authority that his uncle had commanded. He was the second son of a second son, and whilst his father was well liked by most of the Western Lords, he had spent his entire life in the shadow of his elder brother. These ancient houses did not think they need bend the knee before some lion whelp who didn't have any of the blood of the feared Tywin Lannister in his veins.

Martyn pulled himself out of bed then, and went to look into the mirror. The boy that he saw was not the same that had gone into this war dreaming of glory and songs written about him. He was taller, granted, but he was more lanky than he was strong. His arms and legs were too thin, and his shoulders were not broad enough. His face, fortunately, had avoided any blemishes and spots, but his golden hair was greasy. He would call for some water to be sent up this evening so that he could wash.

He pulled on his underclothes, and then a red jerkin that had a gold trim. It had been his elder brother's, but he had taken it from Lancel's room. None of his old clothes fitted him anymore. He had grown too much. He would have to get new clothes made.

Just then, a knock came on the door. He turned, and then hesitantly called for whoever was there to enter. In stepped the rangy frame of Ser Addam Marbrand, who was the new Captain of the Guards for the Rock. His father had been one of the few nobles to offer their support for the Lannisters. Addam had lost his younger brother to the Tully campaign, and yet his father had surrendered eventually. The same was true of the Crakehalls. They were the two houses who stayed loyal to the Rock.

"What do you want, Addam?"

"My lord, some of your commanders wish to… Discuss something with you. Would you see them?"

Martyn sighed. What little military commanders that he had left were mostly fools, he thought, yet they were seasoned men who had fought in many wars and had held many commands. He nodded to Marbrand.

"Show them into my uncle- Into my solar. Thank you, Ser Addam."

Martyn moved into the solar, and readied himself for the short stream of nobles. First came Raynard Ruttiger, a large man with little discretion and a loud voice. Then came Ser Alyn Stackspear, who represented his father at the Rock. He was a lecherous and wanton man, who had fathered numerous bastards in Lannisport before and after the attack by Edmure Tully. The last men in were the mighty frame of Tybolt Crakehall, and Ser Addam. Martyn indicated for the men to sit around a table, where a map of the Westerlands was laid out, with cyvasse pieces placed on it to represent armies and powerful seats and holdings.

There was two unicorns positioned over the Brax seat of Hornvale. There was one rooster over cornfield, and other pieces over Fair Isle, Kayce, Feastfires, Greenfield, Silverhill, Sarsfield and Deep Den. They were some of the seats that refused to reinforce there support for the Lannister name.

The Stackfort ws the seat of the Stackspears, and was positioned nearby to Feastfires and Kayce, on the Kayce peninsula. The Ruttiger seat of Rutland was nearby to Sarsfield, and just south of Ashemark. He had already moved half the Marbrand force to Rutland, so as to apply some pressure to the Sarsfields. The resistant houses had yet to rise in official rebellion, but it was only a matter of time.

The Golden Tooth was one of the few settlements that fit in neither category. Lady Lefford had left her seat for Riverrun with Edmure Tully. She had written a raven. It had been something about securing her fortune, and to find herself a suitable marriage.

"My men are ready to march on Sarsfield as soon as you command, my Lord. With the Marbrands at our back we can bring Lord Melwyn to his knee before you."

Melwyn Sarsfield was one of a number of new lords that had risen up after the Tully invasion. He had lost his father and brother at the hands of tow of Edmure Tully's commanders, Thoren Smallwood and Gerion Chambers.

"Ser Melwyn is still a young lord. We would be better sending our troops there to intimidate him. He will not hold out long after that, I do not think. Besides, the Sarsfields command barely any troops. We should be concentrating on bringing into line houses Brax, Payne, Kenning and Serrett. If we can secure them then we can also secure the lesser houses who follow them."

Ruttiger turned to Marbrand, who had been the person that had interjected on his battle plans. Martyn got the impression that Raynard was merely suggesting his approach so that he could win some glory. Raynard had been part of Daven Lannister's army that besieged Riverrun, but had returned to the West with Forley Prester, who had been killed in an attack. Raynard was still yet to prove his own valour.

"Crakehall men moving to Greenfield. We deliver soon."

Tybolt Crakehall was a large man, with a bushy, black beard that covered his chin. His shoulders were broad and his arms were thick. He often stood with them crossed in front of him, but he was more a warrior than a thinker. He certainly wasn't the most educated general that Martyn had under his control, but the Crakehalls were almost all more brawn than brain.

Garth Greenfield was the Knight of Greenfield. He had been captured early in the war, but had returned to his castle. His brother and heir, Garse, had been serving as regent. Martyn suspected that it was more Garse Greenfield that opposed Lannister rule.

The Crakehalls were one of the few Westerlander houses that still had fighting men and their lands untouched. The Tully forces had not reached Crakehall, and nor would they have dared to attack it had they got that far. Roland Crakehall was a feared general, and his third son, Merlon, was a capable fighter, and would lead the Crakehall forces to Greenfield. He would likely win his battle, and deliver Greenfield to the hands of Lannister.

"And what should we do about Lords Kenning and Prester? They amass their forces and intend to move them against my father."

Ser Alyn Stackspear was now talking. Addam Marbrand rolled his eyes. The two of them didn't get along. Marbrand had been old friends with cousin Jaime, and Martyn's cousin and Stackspear had never got along. Marbrand thought the man was shallow and lacked honour. He wasn't wrong. Those words definitely did describe Ser Alyn.

"We don't have the men to send west right now. Most of the men of Casterly rock and Lannisport are dead. With Fair Isle opposing us we don't have the ships to blockade the port at Kayce. We must be patient."

The Stackfort at most commanded three hundred men, but these numbers had been depleted by the war. Now the Stackfort could give them no more than fifty men, if that. Those few who had made it home from the fighting in the Riverlands and the Crownlands. It was not prudent to send men to die defending that castle when those men could be used elsewhere.

Just then, a knock came on the door. When it was opened, Martyn recognised the face of Maester Creylen. He was a young maester, with rosey cheeks and high eyebrows, which gave him a perpetually surprised impression. It had been decided some years before that the maester for Casterly Rock should always be a young man, for the elderly struggled with the many steps inside the Rock.

"There is a rider for you. A few riders, I mean. A group. Three or four have come up to see you. They are in the gardens waiting for you."

"Can it wait, Creylen?"

"I am afraid that the men said that it was rather urgent."

Martyn frowned and then nodded. He turned to his commanders.

"You must forgive me, my lords. I should go and see to this. We can reconvene and discuss more either after the feast this evening, or on the morrow."

He then left the room. He could hear Addam Marbrand following him, and as he left the room, he felt Ser Addam match his strides, so that they were walking side by side.

"Was it you who commanded the Crakehall forces to advance on Greenfield?"

"It was not. I assume that Lord Roland has taken the decision into his own hands. It is worrying. It does not exactly scream to me that he has any faith in my abilities. Maybe he is right. Maybe Raynard is right, too. Should we send him and his forces to bring Sarsfield into line?"

Addam shrugged as they walked.

"I think we should be trying to avoid as much bloodshed as we can between Westerlander and Westerlander. Many of these men have lost too much as it is."

"Then we are in agreement. Melwyn Sarsfield is not much older than I am. He is merely lacking in good advice. Maybe I should send you at the head of a small force to talk him into surrender. Bring him to me here, and have him bend the knee. Yes, I think that is wise. Go get yourself a horse, Ser Addam. Ride for Rutland and get one hundred of your best men. Bring Sarsfield into line."

Addam nodded then, and turned, walking back into the maze of the Rock. He left Martyn alone, save for the thoughts that he carried with him.

His uncle Tywin had faced an uprising, when the Reynes of Castamere and their Tarbeck vassals rose against Tytos Lannister, Martyn's grandfather. His uncle had not only quashed the rebellion, but also wiped out the entire family. He would ever be remembered for that, and for the manner of his death. Martyn didn't want to be feared like that. He would not wipe out these houses that opposed his rule. He would bring them back into the peace of the Westerlands with peace. That was what he wanted.

When he stepped outside into the gardens of the Rock, he felt a cold and crisp wind hit his face. They had been getting the faintest snowfalls over the last few weeks, but today the sky was clear and the sky a light blue. The air was chilly though, and Martyn felt it raise goosebumps on his arm.

Across the gardens from him stood five men. Three of them wore golden cloaks, and golden bands on their arms. Another was a large man dressed in a jerkin of yellow, with green trim. The last man was stood at the edge of the garden, looking out over the edge of the Rock. He was thin, and wore a brown riding robe, with a hood pulled up so that Martyn couldn't see his hair. It was the large man that noticed him first.

"Dear nephew! It is good to see you! I- I have gone so long without seeing a friend!"

Martyn furrowed his brow as he walked over to the group. Then he realised that this man was Steffon Swyft, his mother's brother. He had been fatter the last time Martyn remembered seeing him. The war had clearly done him well in this regard.

"Lord Steffon- Uncle, I was sorry to hear about your loss, and then your imprisonment. I did not expect to see you here. Last I heard the dragons held you prisoner in what remains of King's Landing."

His uncle was the knight of Cornfield, though most called them lords. They were more powerful than most of the other lords of the Westerlands. Cornfield was one of the places that had yet to bow before his rule, but they had been without a recognised leader. Steffon had been regent for his father, and had yet to appoint one of his own.

"I was let out! I was sent with this man to bring tidings from the capital for you. I was sent to implore you to bend the knee before the Iron Throne and return to the Seven Kingdoms. United."

For some reason Martyn doubted that his uncle had been sent as the main messenger. Steffon was few things, and one of the things that he was not was competent. He was no warrior and no diplomat. A stable man with money, but little more than that.

"I do not know what you have heard, Uncle, but most of the Westerlands don't accept me as their lord, let alone a Targaryen as their new ruler. Why, Cornfield itself has yet to acknowledge a return to Lannister rule now that the Tully invasion is done and finished."

Steffon's face went white at that, and then he nodded compliantly.

"I shall write a raven to my captain of the guards, nephew. Cornfield will always acknowledge the lion of Lannister as our one true liege lords."

"Excellent. Whilst you are at it could you write a message to aunt Shierle and ask her to persuade her husband to comply with the messenger that I am sending to advise him?"

Steffon nodded, and then Martyn smiled, placing a hand on his uncle's shoulder.

"It is good to see you alive and well, uncle. I was preparing a ransom to be sent to the capital to secure your release. Now that money can be used elsewhere."

Martyn moved on from his uncle, who was still offering him thanks long after he was gone. He looked to the three men in the golden cloaks. None of them looked inviting or remotely interested in talking with him, and so he cautiously approached the stranger, who had his back to him. Martyn sidled up so he was stood alongside him.

He looked down and saw a view that always marvelled him.

Below them was Lannisport, which had once been a thriving city, resplendent in wealth and reputation, the jewel of the Westerlands. Now it was nothing matched to that. Little more than burned houses and large graveyards. He saw a group of riders leaving the Rock, though they were little more than specks. Maybe that was Ser Addam, riding off to Rutland, and then on to Sarsfield.

"It has been a long time since I have last looked out on this view. They were better times then. It hurts me to see what has become of Lannisport and the Westerlands as a whole whilst I have been gone."

Martyn looked at the hooded stranger. So he had been up here before? This was not his first visit to Casterly Rock?

"It is also a long time since I last saw you, nephew. You were little more than six years when I last saw you. You were your mother's pride and joy. Well, you and your twin brother. I was sorry to hear about Willem."

Just the mere mention of his brother's name made Martyn's heart sick. He had been murdered by some Northern lord. Killed in his sleep, or so he had been told. It had hit him hard, but his father even harder. Willem still visited him most nights, asking to play in the gardens, or pleading for him to be saved from the knife that was coming for him. It had been Martyn's sixteenth name day not long ago. It would have been Willem's too. That had been a bad day.

He looked at the stranger with more questioning eyes. Not only had this man visited the Rock, but he had been here when Martyn was a child. Maybe he was not as much a stranger as Martyn thought that he was. Could there be more to this man?

And then the stranger moved his hands to his hood and slowly moved it down. There was a purpose to the motion, as if the man wanted to make the reveal as dramatic as he could.

The face that Martyn was now looking at was one that he vaguely recognised. He had golden hair and green eyes, like those of a cat. He was a Lannister, and Martyn knew which one.

"Uncle Gerion?"

"You remember me, Martyn. Yes, I am Ser Gerion Lannister. Brother to both Tywin Lannister and your father, Kevan Lannister. I have been sent here by Daenerys Targaryen, and your cousin, Tyrion, to persuade House Lannister to join with the Targaryens to reunite the Seven Kingdoms."

Martyn nodded. He had been aware that his cousin Tyrion had joined the court of Daenerys and Aegon Targaryen, and that the dragons had named him their candidate for the Lordship of Casterly Rock. The Imp could have it, if he wanted. And all the troubles that came with it.

"Would that I could give your king and queen the Westerlands, uncle. Sadly I cannot. Most of the lords oppose the rule of the Rock. They see us as weak ever since uncle Tywin died and the trout of Tully sacked our lands."

Gerion frowned, and tapped his right foot on the ground.

"Tell me more, nephew. Which houses still follow you."

"A number of smaller houses such as the Stackspears, Ruttigers and Brooms, and then the Marbrands and the Crakehalls. Hopefully soon Cornfield will announce support for the Rock, and I have sent men to Sarsfield too."

"And which houses openly oppose you?"

"The Kennings of Kayce and the Presters of Feastfires gather their armies together. The Farmans of Fair Isle have proved unresponsive to our summons. The Greenfields and the Serretts hold up in the south, and the Paynes have started taking tolls along the Gold Road, along with their vassals, the Vikarys and the Peckledons. The Braxes and the Lyddens have also cemented an army in the east."

Gerion's frown grew. He must know realise that Martyn hadn't been lying. The situation was not a good one, and if any of these houses started to work together then there was a distinct chance of an open revolt starting sooner rather than later.

"What of the Westerlings, Baneforts and Leffords?"

"Lady Lefford has left for Riverrun, in the hopes of finding a powerful husband. Lords Banefort and Westerling have also gone. They were taken as prisoners by one Patrek Mallister. Last I heard they were being taken to Seagard. Many of the men from the Crag betrayed us to support the Mallister boy."

Patrek Mallister had made an impression on Martyn when the two had briefly met. He had not seemed like the rest of the generals sworn to Edmure Tully, and seemed to have held some remorse for the murder of Damion. Still, it felt strange calling Patrek a boy seen as he was a few years older than he was himself.

"Then we should arrange a council. Summon all of these reticent lords to one place, and I will address them and reunite the Westerlands. You said you were soon to reclaim Sarsfield? Arrange the council for there then. Do not tell them that I am returned. It will be a nice surprise for some of the lords who knew me from before."

Martyn nodded, and then left his uncle to the view. He found that his other uncle had gone, though the three men from before were still here. He passed them with no words spoken, and left the gardens, back into the cool confines of the Rock.

He had lost so many members of his family during this war, but one that he had thought dead had returned. Was this the gods' idea of a joke? Still, if Gerion brought peace to the West then he would be thankful. Peace was all that he wanted.


	102. Patrek IX

The courtyard of Riverrun had felt deathly quiet ever since they had made their return. There were no celebrations. There was no drinking and feasting whilst sharing stories of triumphant victories against the Lannister lion. Instead there was lots of mourning. And lots of silence.

Patrek walked along the battlements as I often did since returning. The silence and sombre mood made it easier to think out here than it was inside. Most of the lords who were still here had lost family on the return. Others had lost friends. That was what Patrek felt like, as he looked down at the Red Fork.

Edmure had confined himself to his chambers since their return. The only person allowed to see him was old Utherydes Wayn, who brought him all his meals and his drink. Even then Wayn never stayed in the chambers long. The king was mourning his dead wife, Lady Roslin, and their son, who had both been hanged by the group that called themselves the Brotherhood without Banners. Their leader had been Edmure's sister, Catelyn Tully, who had been killed during the Red Wedding. Clearly the Freys had done a poor job in making sure that the death was a permanent one.

It was not Roslin Frey or the little child that Patrek mourned, however, but one of Roslin's brothers. Olyvar had already been hanging from those wretched trees when they had arrived. He had been set upon by the Brotherhood on his way back from Crakehall. It had been Patrek that had sent him away. He had sent him to his death.

"I thought that I would find you here."

Patrek turned, though he knew who he would find waiting for him. The Blackfish was a large man, and his eyes had grown sadder the more weeks passed by. It had been he that had done it. It had been he who ended the life of the murderous Catelyn Tully. His own niece, but he had been forced into doing it. To save his nephew and his king.

"It is not healthy to come up here alone with your thoughts, Mallister. Believe me. I know more than most. The amount of times over these weeks that I have thought of throwing myself into the river below. Throwing myself to my death."

The Blackfish walked to the edge of the battlements, and, placed his hand on the stone. Patrek saw his knuckles were white, like he was applying pressure on the stone.

"The gods are cruel, Mallister. They roll their dice and someone down here loses someone they truly care for. It would be cruel of me to let myself die now. Edmure needs me more than he ever has. He needs you, too. You should talk with him. Today of all days is a time to bring your friends back to you. You were like brothers once. Today should be a day where you are like brothers again."

"He talks with no one, Blackfish. Why would he talk to me? Why not you, or Marq Piper, or Karyl Vance?"

Brynden turned to him then, and placed a hand on Patrek's shoulder. It was a reassuring hand. It made him think that everything was going to be alright. There was strength in this man, both physically and emotionally.

"Me and Hoster may not always have seen eye to eye on everything, but we were still brothers. Edmure has never had that. He only had sisters, and both of them are now dead. You were the closest thing to a brother that he has ever had. He wants you there for him now, even if he won't admit it. Besides, you are good for my nephew. Any fool can see that."

Patrek nodded, and then met the eyes of the Blackfish, who smiled sadly and turned away.

"Now, leave an old man alone with his thoughts and regrets, boy. I will be attending later. You can be sure of that."

The Blackfish took up his place at the wall of the battlements again, staring out into the distance. Patrek looked at him sadly, and then left him alone. He strode through the empty courtyard and into the main keep of the castle. A few men were sat in the great hall, breaking their fast on bread and beef. The leftovers from the meal before.

He spotted Ellery Vance, who had lost a father and two brothers. He spotted Alester Chambers, whose father had been killed by the Brotherhood. He spotted Ravella Smallwood, who had been widowed by them. With her husband dead with no heirs, she had been named Lady of his seat.

He took the passage left out of the great hall that led up to the lord's chambers. He found the passage and stairs empty. When he arrived at Edmure's door, he also found Utherydes Wayn leaving through them. The old steward looked grey and despondent. He almost walked into Patrek, though he helped the old man stablilise himself.

"How is he?"

"No better. He mourns the loos of his wife and son, as any of us would. He was not even like this when his father passed on. He had already made his peace with that, I suppose. This feels different. Do you intend to go and talk with him, Ser Patrek?"

"I intend to try."

The old man nodded, and then started to amble away. Patrek pushed slightly at the door. He found a room which was a mess. He found a dark room with the curtains closed and blocking out the sunlight. Most importantly, he found his king still within his bed, underneath his sheets, staring off into the dark distance. Some part of Edmure had been killed along with his wife and son.

Edmure's skin was pale, which made the dark bags underneath his eyes even more evident. His auburn hair had gone lank and greasy, and his eyes were bloodshot and red from crying and a lack of sleep. The Lord of Riverrun didn't look well. In fact, he looked like he might be at death's door.

"Patrek… I thought I said no visitors…"

Edmure's voice was croaking, as if he hadn't spoken in quite a long time. He didn't sound forceful, or angry that Patrek had come in. He didn't sound like he was opposing the idea of visitors at all. If anything it sounded like the exact opposite.

"I know, your grace, but I feared for your health, and felt you needed a friend's comfort in these times, as we all would."

"Do not call me your grace, Patrek. I am not worthy of such a title. I ran away fighting my wars of vengeance and ignored my wife. I left her and my child alone amongst a pit of vipers. I abandoned them to their deaths. I am no king. I am still a child playing with a crown."

Patrek walked to the bed that held his friend, and sat down on the edge of it. He moved his hand to the knee of his friend. He couldn't help but think that what Edmure had just said was the most kingly thing he had heard from the man since he had been crowned by the riverlords. Understanding flaws and weaknesses was the key to developing the power to lead.

"You did not kill your wife and son. You did not kill Jonos Bracken or Norbert Vance. You did not kill Olyvar Frey. That was what was left of your sister. You cannot blame yourself for her actions, just as you shouldn't blame yourself for the actions of Walder Frey at the Red Wedding."

Edmure didn't respond to that, but instead stared off blankly into the distance. Patrek rose and turned away from his friend, walking to the windows. He pulled open the curtains, and allowed the sun to filter into the room, and chase the darkness away. His friend needed that. He needed the darkness to leave him, both figuratively and literally.

Dwelling in the dark did no good for men who had darkness in their minds and their hearts. Edmure was not a bad man, but he blamed himself for things that he did not deserve to be blamed for. The murder of Roslin Frey had been a horrendous crime, and most of the Brotherhood without Banners had paid for it. A few had survived, though most had disappeared.

"What was left of my sister… My other sister, Lysa, was not a stable woman. Maybe Cat had the same thing. Maybe I have it too. There is a darkness in the Tully blood. I can feel it."

Patrek suspected that it was not the Tully blood which held darkness. Hoster Tully's wife had been Minisa Whent, who had mothered all his children. The Whents had been the descendants of the Lothstons, who had bad blood. Many members of that family had been mad.

"There is no madness inside you, Edmure. You were foolish in your lust for revenge. You heeded the advice of bad counsellors who themselves wanted blood or glory or gold dragons. Whatever your sister had become, she was no longer Catelyn Tully. You know that. She was some twisted monster that was focused on revenge. That is what you had become too, though you have been gifted with the power to change that. You have the opportunity to be wise and just and fair. Learn from your mistakes. Grow from them. That is the only way to make this better."

"You talk with such wisdom, Patrek. Where has this come from? You are no0t the boy that I grew up with any longer. Has war changed you this much? How have you learned all these lessons whilst they simply passed me by?"

Patrek put his hand on Edmure's shoulder, and smiled down at his friend.

"These are lessons that you will learn, my friend. Given time. Given good advice. Now come, get yourself out of bed and dress yourself. It would honour me if you could be with me later."

A look of surprise came onto Edmure's face.

"Is that today? My friend I did not know. I will be there, of course. I should be there."

"Then I shall see you later, your grace."

He left the room then, with Edmure finally out of his bed. He would need a bath, and new smallclothes, for the ones he was currently wearing stank of sweat and dirt. Patrek smiled at the thought of his friend back in action, away from his bed and away from his dark thoughts.

There were still no men training in the courtyard, though Patrek spotted a number of smallfolk busying about on their daily duties. The Master of Horse was stroking the manes of some of his beasts, and a group of women were sat outside in the sun washing clothes. He had another person that he wanted to see, and he knew where he would find him.

The Godswood at Riverrun was not dour or unwelcoming, but full of light. It almost felt insulting or patronising given the dour mood and attitude that surrounded the castle. Knelt at the heart of the forest, as he expected, were three figures.

One of them was a boy. The other was a young man, but with a tall frame and rangy features. He was slim and had a clumsy look about him, if that was possible. The last, who knelt in the middle, had a powerful figure and broad shoulders. He wore a cloak of raven's feathers. The three of them all had the same black hair.

His approach clearly wasn't silent, and the three figures all rose from their kneeling position. They turned to him, and he was met with the faces of three men of House Blackwood. Well, two men and a boy.

The youngest was ben Blackwood, who was almost of age to become a man. He was squiring for Patrek's father, as part of an agreement between the two houses. The rangy figure was Hoster Blackwood, a bookish boy who was now a knight. He had led the Riverland troops when they turned on the Lannisters, and had supposedly killed Ilyn Payne personally.

The figure in the middle was a friend of Patrek, and the patriarch of the Blackwood clan. Lord Tytos had a menacing look about him, but still he stretched his arm out to Patrek, and he took it.

"I did not mean to interrupt your prayers, my friends."

"We were almost done anyway. We were praying that my eldest son, Brynden, find his way back to us soon. He went north with Lord Glover and Lady Mormont. I have not heard of his survival. We pray also for you. Today is no easy day, I know that."

"You will come then?"

Tytos looked to Hoster and Ben.

"We would be honoured to be in attendance, but something makes me think that this invitation is not why you seek me out. Leave us ben. You too, Hoster."

The two boys nodded to Patrek, and then left the Godswood. That left Patrek alone with Tytos. The Lord of Raventree Hall could be an intimidating man when he wanted to be, which was most of the time. Patrek half feared him and half respected him.

"The situation at Stone Hedge-"

"Will be resolved shortly, my friend. I can assure you that my son holds no ill intent in his movements there. A deal was arranged before the death of Lord Jonos, and Alyn is simply making sure that it is respected."

Ever since news that Jonos Bracken had been killed had filtered through the issue of his inheritance had become an issue in the Riverlands. Jonos had only daughters, save for a baseborn boy that had been killed during the war. There had been a brother and a nephew, too, but both of them were slain also. Jonos had been the last male Bracken of the main line.

There had been a distant cousin who had made the first claim, but he had been killed by his own brother, who had been in turn killed by another cousin. None of them had commanded many men, and Alyn Blackwood had promptly swept in with what was left of the Raventree garrison to take control of Stone Hedge in the name of Edmure Tully, to prevent any more cousins murdering cousins.

Tytos had come before the court of Riverrun claiming that Jonos had agreed to marry Alyn to his eldest daughter, Barabara, who was twenty and four years of age, ten years senior of Alyn. The Blackwoods and Brackens had married many times, despite their infamous feud. Many attempts had been made to rectify the issue. It wouldn't surprise Patrek if another had been made here.

The solution didn't suit everyone, however. Many of the nobles of the Riverlands had Bracken blood in their veins and believed that they should inherit Stone hedge. Marq Piper's paternal grandmother had been a Bracken, whilst Tristan Ryger's mother had been a Bracken cousin. Of course, with Edmure a recluse it had been difficult to sort out the issue. For now, Alyn Blackwood held Stone Hedge.

"We cannot have armies wandering the Riverlands taking each other's castles, you know that, Tytos. Some in this castle believe that what you have done is tantamount to treason, and that you are merely seizing your chance, as Marq Piper and Tristan Ryger are. They ask for proof of this marriage agreement. Do you have it?"

"A signed document in my solar at Raventree Hall. I would go and collect it, but there are too few men with experience here. I would send a man to retrieve it but even my must trusted man isn't trusted enough for this challenge. That document could be what ends this millenia old rivalry between the Blackwoods and Brackens."

Only because the Brackens are all but dead, Patrek thought. There was more than just those accusations being levelled at Lord Tytos by some. They claimed that the brother who had killed the first Bracken claimant had been paid to do so with Blackwood coin. Stone Hedge may not be much, but the land that came with it would make Raventree Hall the second most powerful seat in the region, behind only Riverrun and Harrenhal.

"Then when this is all done I shall ride to Raventree with you and collect this document. We shall pay Alyn a visit along the way. I think we can all agree on our desire to see this business done with as soon as possible."

"Aye, I can agree to that. I am sure that Alyn would agree too."

Yes, why would Alyn want this to drag out? By the time it was done he would have himself a wife of a good age, who was fair and pretty by most accounts, and a castle to boot.

And so Patrek left the Godswood with Tytos. He had been half expecting to find Hoster and Ben waiting for them outside, but they had clearly gone elsewhere to make themselves busy. The day was waning now, and within a few hours the darkness would have settled. Tytos patted him on the shoulder, and then left, moving towards the main keep of Riverrun, where the Blackwood chambers had been set up.

He turned then, and entered the Riverrun sept. It was not a large building, tucked away slightly inside some additional gardens, which Hoster Tully had commemorated to his wife after she died. The building itself was seven-sided and made of a yellow stone. Light filtered through the high windows and hit the floor, where chairs had been arranged. The room was empty, save for one man.

Jason Mallister, Patrek's father, looked as strong now as Patrek had ever known him. His hair was grey, yes, but his eyes were alive and darting. When they met Patrek's a smile broke onto the man's face. He was dressed in his formal clothes, a cloak of blue with silver trim.

"My boy, you come at last. I thought we agreed to meet here some time ago."

"I had unexpected business to sort out, father. Meetings with the Blackfish and Tytos Blackwood. And the king, too."

Patrek's father looked taken aback by that news. He had attempted to visit Edmure himself upon his arrival, but his audience had been rejected. Only Utherydes Wayn had got to see the king, before today anyway. Patrek moved to his father and took him in an embrace. It was a few seconds before they parted.

"I am here now though, father. We do not have long before all the others arrive. What is it that you wished to talk about?"

Jason pulled a scrap of paper from his robes, and offered it to Patrek. He read it quickly, his eyes wide.

"Arya Stark is in the Vale? I thought you said-"

"Aye, the girl was with me at the Twins. She rode south with me, intending to meet with her uncle and have him bend the knee to Daenerys Targaryen. I know not how she reached the Vale. She is their problem now."

"Should we tell Edmure? He would be glad to know that his niece is alive, but maybe less so to know that she has been taken prisoner from out of our clutches."

Jason sighed, and pondered the issue for a few seconds.

"We will tell him, but tomorrow. Today is not the right time, nor the right place. Let that story be one for another day, and let today be about unity in these hard times. Are you sure about this, Patrek?"

"I am, father. I love her."

Jason smiled and nodded. He placed his hand on Patrek's shoulder, and he could see tears in his father's eyes.

"Your mother would be proud of the man that you have become, Patrek. If she were here to see this, then I know-"

"You do not have to say this, father. I wish mother was still here, too. I know that in the heavens she looks down on us, and is as proud of you as she is of me. We can do her name justice. Together."

Jason smiled a sad smile at that, and nodded again. He clasped Patrek's hand.

"You have truly become a man, my son. Now go, get yourself dressed in clothes befitting of the occasion before your bride sees you in these."

Patrek smiled at his father and then pulled away. He went into a side room, where another man was waiting for him. Tom of Sevenstreams had dressed as formally as he could, though it was not much more than a clean pair of rags. Still, he had tried.

He had taken the singer into his own service after the man had helped him free Jeyne from the rest of the Brotherhood without Banners. He had Tytos Blackwood, the Blackfish and his father sign a pardon for the man. He had turned his cloak on the Brotherhood when he saw what they were capable of.

Tom helped him into robes of purple and silver, and then scampered upstairs to take his seat. Patrek stayed down here for a few more seconds, staring into the mirror. He remembered the old days, with Edmure and Marq, womanizing in a local inn or tavern, bedding whores, and quaffing more ale than they should have ever been allowed. Those days were done now. In truth they had been done for some time, but today was the day that he officially let them go. Today was the day that he moved on.

As he entered the main sept once more, he found that the seats had been filled. He saw Tytos, Hoster and Ben Blackwood all sat together. He spotted Karyl Vance sat at the back of the room, a cockshaw look on his face. He was seated next to Tom. Marq Piper had actually shown up, though he looked somewhat disinterested.

Then there was Brynden the Blackfish, who had a kind look on his usually dour and weathered face. It was as if there was something that was helping him be peaceful here. Beside him was seated Edmure, who had dressed up in finery, though still looked pale and unwell. Patrek realised that Brynden actually had his arm around his nephew, holding him close.

Then were the Westerling children, sat next to Brynden and Edmure. Rollam was a young boy. His feet barely touched the ground. His sister, Eleyna, was a sweet girl, who looked like a younger version of his bride, her sister. His own father was stood at the dais, his eyes trained on Patrek and a sad smile on his face. They shared another hug as Patrek reached him. Patrek turned, and exchanged a nod with Edmure, who, for the first time in a long while, had a smile on his face.

Then the doors to the sept opened, and the sun filtered in through it. With it came two figures who walked slowly down the aisle between the seats. One of them was Gawen Westerling, who Patrek had spared the life of, and who had been brought here from Seagard specifically to be here for this wedding. He was guiding someone else down the aisle.

Jeyne was as beautiful as she ever was, with her flowing brown hair, and her pretty doe eyes, and her shapely curves. She wore a gown of sand coloured fabric, with white trim. The cloak that she wore was white and grey, however. A symbol of her first husband.

He took her hands in his as she reached him. They were soft, and her fingers were nimble and elegant. Patrek barely noticed his father put an arm around Gawen and escort them both to their seats. He was too entranced.

"I have been waiting for this moment all day, Patrek, and now I never want it to end. Just you and me forever. No-one can break us apart."

He smiled, and kissed her forehead gently, allowing his lips to linger. The ceremony began, though he couldn't break his eyes from hers. He could barely even blink, and the smile on his face never left. He took his cloak off and attached it to her, replacing the one for House Stark. When the ceremony ended they embraced, and then kissed. Eventually they pulled away, and put their foreheads together. When they spoke it was in a hushed whisper.

"Will you love me forever. Patrek?"

"I will, Jeyne. I will love you always."

 _*Wasn't that sweet? Anyways, it's me again. Here to irritate you with more news. So, I am active now on the Amino app for Game of Thrones, called Thrones Amino. If any of you have it and want to contact me there to talk about Thrones then feel free. I am also in the process of releasing this story there too, and release a whole bunch of other theories and other cool stuff. Check it out if you have the app. In other news, I'm hoping to maintain a certain level of activity, with at least one chapter every week, maybe more if you're lucky little ducks. That is all. Edd out!*_


	103. Tyrion V

Tyrion Lannister once again found himself waddling through the halls of the Redd Keep, or what few halls remained. Most of the mighty castle that had once towered over the city had been burned to rubble. Just the holdfast and a few of the walls remained standing, and even then barely. Restoration was beginning, but it could be years before the keep was even half of what it had been before, let alone the city.

It was even more cramped since the arrival of the one claiming to be Rhaenys Targaryen. Many of the Golden Company now slept outside the walls, though Harry Strickland and Franklyn Flowers still had chambers in the keep. Flowers shared with Jon Connington, who Tyrion often found shooting him glares or suspicious looks during feast and the like. The man wore more clothes than Tyrion remembered, and always seemed to keep himself clothed. It was like he was never nude. He never saw any women entering Connington's chambers, though he suspected that was for a different reason.

Tyrion's mind wandered onto thoughts of the new dragon queen. She certainly could be who she claimed to be. Varys had saved one of Rhaegar's children. Why not both?

She also resembled how Tyrion had always heard Rhaenys described. He had never met the Princess in person, but they said that she was more Dornish than she was Valyrian, because of her mother. It was perhaps the only time that Elia Martell had been dominant. The girl was Dornish definitely, though it would not have been hard for Varys to scoop up some Dornish orphan girl and put her forward as a pretender queen for the Iron Throne.

It was why he would do that which baffled Tyrion. Varys and Illyrio had both looked after Daenerys and Aegon, clearly with the intent of them ruling together. Of course, Daenerys' fool brother had been an obstacle, but he had gotten himself killed off. Why would Varys and Illyrio need another candidate for the Iron Throne, and why reveal them now, if they had already succeeded in their mission. He had been thinking on this ever since Rhaenys arrived, but he was yet to come to an answer.

As he was walking, he passed one of the construction crews, under the watchful eyes of Daario Naharis. The sellsword nodded in his direction. He was not helping the restoration, but each group needed someone to watch over them. There were six teams, led by Daario, Tristan Rivers, Andrey Dalt, Lord Cafferen, Eustace Brune, and Duram Bar Emmon, who had arrived in the city a few days ago, had all been given command of their own group.

The Bar Emmon was a lord in name, but he was barely over seventeen years, and was plump and weak. He was not a warrior, and he barely held any sort of command whatsoever.

The Bar Emmons had supported Stannis at first, Tyrion remembered, and most of their men were still in the North following him. Duram had brought with him little more than fifty boys, most as green and weak as he was himself.

Tyrion passed beyond Daario's building party, who wrere trying to restore the floor in a place where it had fallen away whilst the city burned. He pushed on, and up a flight of stairs. At the top he took the first turn, and then followed the corridor, going right at the end of it, he bumped into a hulking frame.

"Ah, Clegane. How pleasant it is to see you again."

"Don't lie to me, Imp. You've been avoiding me ever since I got here. It's no skin off my face. You're half as clever as you think you are, and half as tall as you should be."

"As endearing as ever, I see, Clegane. Is the boy inside?"

Sandor Clegane grunted, though Tyrion was unsure what it was that he meant by that. Was that his way of saying yes?

"Aye, he is. He's not as much a cunt as you or me, Imp. He's an innocent boy who doesn't know nothing. You going to tell him?"

"Do you not think that he deserves to know?"

"Who gives a fuck what people deserve any more? If people got what they deserved then Robb Stark and his family wouldn't be dead, but they are. His bitch mother, his fool father, his- His sisters."

There was a brief break in the façade of Sandor Clegane as he said that. Was it the thought of Sansa and Arya Stark? What about those sisters would cause that from the Hound of all people? He was a heartless and merciless killer. More than that, he enjoyed killing and believed that it was right. Why would he suddenly start acting like this?

"You knew the Stark girls?"

"Aye, I did, Imp. Go and talk with your boy. Try not to fuck him. He's a big boy. Would probably tear your cock off. What would you be without that?"

"Not as much of a man, I would have thought."

Sandor grunted then, and stormed off, a foul look upon his already foul face. Tyrion watched him go. The Hound had always been a volatile man, but this was less like the usual temper that Tyrion knew of. He was foul tempered, true, but his hatred was all encompassing. Now it seemed like Clegane had his hatred primed specifically on one thing. What could it be?

He had little time to think of dogs and their tempers, though, and so pushed the door open. Inside he found three figures. The hedge knight, Lothor Brune, was staring out of a window, at the ruins of the city down below. Then there was the girl, Mya Stone, who had piercing blue eyes. Tyrion had noticed them before, but had thought nothing of it. Now, however, he wondered if there was more to it than that.

The strong boy was sat upon the bed.

"Little Lannister, I was not expecting a visit from you this morning. I would have dressed in my finery had I known."

"And what finery would that be, Brune? A codpiece as little as I? It is not you I am here to see. I wish to talk with the boy. Alone."

Lothor grumbled at that, but soon left the room, Mya's arm through his. Tyrion watched as the boy watched them leave. Tyrion walked over to him.

"What is your name, boy?"

"Gendry, milord."

"And do you know who I am, Gendry?"

The boy hesitated, and Tyrion sighed. He knew that the boy was cycling through all the names that he had heard be directed at him. He could see his mind working. He wasn't a smart one this boy All brawns and no brains. Just like his father.

"You're Tyrion Lannister, milord. The Im- The Lord of Casterly Rock."

"Do you know who my sister is? Do you know who she was married to?"

"Of course, milord. Your sister was Cersei Lannister, and she was married to King Robert."

So the boy at least knew who Robert was. Who didn't in these Seven Kingdoms? Robert had been larger than life, and had led the Kingdom for many years. It was whether the boy had any clue about what Robert was to him that was the true question.

"Did you ever meet King Robert?"

"No, milord. Why would I? I was just an armorer's boy. Master Mott didn't even let me talk with Loras Tyrell when he came. I talked to the two hands. That was it."

He must mean Eddard Stark and Jon Arryn. They must have met the boy and then worked out that Joffrey, Tommen and Myrcella had not been Robert's children. He had loved Tommen and Myrcella, and yet they had come from incest. There had been none of Jaime or Cersei in Tommen. He had been an innocent boy.

"Do you want to know why the hands were so interested in you, Gendry?"

"Yes, milord."

"They believed the same thing that I did. You never knew your father, did you? That is because your father was Robert Baratheon. You are his bastard son."

That was met with silence from the boy. He did not respond to this information, and instead just stared off into the distance. Eventually he moved his eyes to Tyrion, who rose his eyebrows and nodded.

"Think about it, boy. Why did the Gold Cloaks come after you when you left the city? Why did they show interest in you and no one else. They were sent to kill you, along with the other bastards of Robert Baratheon."

There was a knock on the door. Tyrion turned and called for whoever it was to enter. His brother stepped in then, a little boy in front of him. The child was dark of hair and blue of eyes, and wore a jerkin of gold and black.

"This is Edric Storm, one of the few recognised bastards of Robert Baratheon. Do you see the family resemblance? Do you see what everyone else sees? Tell him, brother. Tell him if he will not believe."

"Your father ordered that all his bastards be monitored and protected, where possible. It was Ser Barristan Selmy that handed you over to Tobho Mott, for him to care for you and raise you nearby to your true father. He sent money to your master to feed you and raise you, not as his own, but as any other blacksmithing apprentice would be raised, and to keep your secret. He swore that he would tell you one day, but that day never came."

Tyrion nodded to his brother as Jaime finished speaking. If that wasn't enough to convince the boy then nothing would. Still Gendry responded with silence, and then he looked up. There was fierceness in those eyes. The same as there had been when Robert got angry. A blue fire and an angry rage.

"We should leave you two to talk, I think. You have a lot of family issues to discuss."

Tyrion turned away and left the room. Lothor and Mya were both stood outside, but he ignored them and started walking back down the corridor that he had come up from. His brother made pace with him alongside, even though his strides were longer.

"Why do you care that the boy know who his father is?"

"I have a soft spot for cripples, bastards and broken things, brother. Especially where fathers are concerned. Besides, I am hopeful that the Stormlords will rally around one of Robert's bastards so that Harry Strickland never holds Storm's End."

He had taken a dislike to Homeless Harry the moment that they had met. He reminded Tyrion of Janos Slynt, though he thought himself more Tywin Lannister. The Golden Company should not be trusted, and they had already served their purpose. Their were other men who were better suited to commanding the company, and properly bringing them into the Targaryen peace.

"If Daenerys knew the truth then would she allow him to live? He is Robert's bastard after all, and men could rally around him to name him king."

"She spared Edric Storm, did she not? I see no reason why that boy would be any different. Besides, having Robert's blood in his veins would not necessarily make him a good king. I am sure that most of the Seven Kingdoms have not forgotten their old king and his misrule."

"I am sure that most of them would prefer that misrule to the co0nstant wars that they have been facing since he died."

Tyrion looked up at Jaime's face. There was a frown on his face, and his jawline was stronger than it had been before. His eyes were less playful now, and glimmered less.

"I truly missed you, brother."

Jaime nodded, and the glimmer of a smile passed over his lips.

"And I you, brother mine."

Just then they stopped walking. Their path was blocked by three figures. Two of them were men, but the one in the centre was a woman.

"Tysha…"

Tysha's eyes briefly passed over Jaime, and a growl crossed her lips. She then turned her attention back to Tyrion.

"May we talk, little Lannister. Alone."

Tyrion nodded, and then turned to Jaime, who moved away. The two men with Tysha seemingly disappeared into the shadows. Suddenly they were alone in this corridor. She had been avoiding him ever since they returned to King's Landing. Why was she looking for him now?

"If you wanted to talk alone then why bring two of my uncle's men with you to meet me?"

"They were not your uncle's men, Lannister. They were mine. I am a captain in my own right. Remember that. They respect me, and that is why they follow me, but respect is earned."

"Is it? I have been trying to earn it all my life, and yet still men call me Imp and Halfman. Or Little Lannister.

"And what have you done to earn respect? Play the quick witted fool? Drink yourself to oblivion? Sleep with any cheap whore that offers her services to you?"

"Believe me, whores do not come cheap when they know that you are Tyrion Lannister, and had you known the King's Landing fool, Moon Boy, then I assure you that my quick wit would make me twice as appealing. Fool or otherwise."

There was a tense silence as the two struggled not to look at the other. Tysha had gone through so much since Tyrion had first known her. How could he not apologise for all of that? It was all his doing. He had caused her to waste her life away as a whore. He had been the one that had brought her into the cruel games of his father, knowing well how Tywin Lannister would react when he heard who his son had wed.

"I did not come to you to exchange barbs, Tyrion."

He looked at her then, visible shock on his face. She did not often use his true name to refer to him, instead sticking to the cruel nicknames, or simply calling him Lannister. She looked more like a woman than a soldier now, though still she didn't meet his gaze.

"Gerion told me that I should talk with you. I did not want to. Not until this morning. I dreamt of the songs that you used to sing me, and the stories that you told me of Casterly Rock. I dreamt of the way that things were before. Do you ever dream of these things?"

"They are one of the few good things that I ever dream of, my lady."

"I am no lady. Do not call me that. The things that I have had to do, Tyrion. To survive. I do not blame you for them. I do not blame your brother. I blame your father, and you killed him, so I should probably thank you. You killed the man who ruined my life."

He put his hand on her arm, but she shrugged him away.

"I do not want to thank you, though. I am no meek girl. Not anymore. You robbed me of the chance to kill Tywin Lannister myself, of having him stare into my eyes and realising who I am before I cut his throat."

"Is that something else that you dream about?"

She laughed at that. It was only a slight laugh, but it was a start.

"I used to. Every night. I wished that I could take a knife and turn it on all your father's men that had laid with me that night, and sometimes I dreamt of turning it on you. I don't dream of that anymore. I do not thank you, Tyrion, but I do forgive you."

"Forgive me? How can you do that, Tysha? I- I should have stood up to my father. I should have believed you and not him and Jaime. I loved you."

"No, Tyrion. You loved the thought of me. You loved the thought that somebody saw past what you are physically and saw what was inside you. A kind man. A generous man. I am not that girl. Not anymore. I am Shyra, of the Corsair Fleet, and I will never return to Lannisport or Casterly Rock. If you want to be with me then you have to forfeit your inheritance. You cannot love me and be Lord of the Rock."

Tyrion looked over at her, tears in the corner of his eyes. There was nothing on his tongue now. No wise remark. No quip or joke. What was she saying? He had hoped beyond hope that she would forgive him, but now she was doing this.

He had spent his entire life wanting to inherit the Rock. He had dreamt of the moment that his father told him that he was worthy of inheriting, and now she would have him forego all of that? How could he do that? Even if he did love her.

"Tysha-"

Suddenly they were interrupted as a man ran up to them. He was tired and sweating, and wore the colours of House Cafferen.

"Lord Tyrion, I- I have been sent to summon you to the Lion's Gate. The other nobles- they are all in the Dragonpit."

"Catch your breath, boy. Who is it that summons me?"

"Ser Tristan Rivers, milord. The Knight of the Lion's Gate. He sent me to fetch a member of the small council."

Tyrion looked at where Tysha had been, but she had disappeared as fast and as silently as her men had done before her. He turned back to the men.

"Is it my uncle? Has he returned?"

"Your uncle, milord? No. There are no Lannister banners. Come with me."

Tyrion nodded, and then followed the man towards the gate of the city. A litter had already been prepared for him. He got inside and made himself comfortable. Another person slipped inside just as they were about to depart, however.

"Lady Asher, I did not expect to see you here."

"That is strange, Lannister, for I did expect to see you. I heard that there was something interesting at the Lion's Gate. I decided to come and see what it was. Coming with you is less effort than walking."

Was she serious when she said that? Was that why she was here? Or was there more? How had she found out that there was something happening at the Lion's gate? Had she been following him? The walls of King's Landing had always had eyes and ears, but he had thought that had ended when the walls of King's Landing burned down.

"Then you are very welcome to join me, my Lady. I apologise that I have no refreshments to offer you. I was not expecting company, as I said."

"Has a lack of company ever prevented you from drinking before, Lannister?"

She smiled at that, and threw her head back as she lay herself down. She truly was very beautiful, but there was something else about her. Something alluring and dangerous, but that made Tyrion all the more attracted to her.

"There is something I have been wondering ever since I met you, my Lady. Asher does not seem like a fitting name for you. Is it not more common for boys?"

"It is, but my father did not want a girl as his first born and decided on the name before I was born. When I came out of my mother with a cunt and not a cock he decided to stick with it."

He smiled at that story, and faked raising a goblet of wine in acknowledgment of it.

"Then we have something in common. I too was a disappointment to my dear father."

"I did not say I was a disappointment, Lannister. My father was a humble blacksmith in service to Lord Hayford. I married the lord's son and heir, and my father was rewarded with lands and titles for my brothers. All told, I think he was quite happy with the work that me and my cunt did."

Tyrion vaguely remembered hearing his father talking about Lord Hayford's son marrying a baseborn blacksmith's girl a few years before. It had made him think of Tysha. This was the woman that Tywin Lannister had been talking about that day.

"Why did the son and heir of House Hayford marry a blacksmith's girl? I am sure there were highborn options on the table for him."

"Aye. His father wished for him to marry Lollys Stokeworth, whose mother had been offering around like a common whore. He also had offers from the Westerlings of the Crag and the Tarths of, well, Tarth. He chose me."

If the Tarth that had been offered was that Brienne then Tyrion could understand why the boy had rejected her in favour of Asher. Brienne was ugly, and better with a sword than most lordlings could ever dream of. Asher was beautiful and exotic, with a charming wit, and a fantastic body.

"Why did he choose you?"

"You ask a lot of questions, Lannister. I'll tell you my story if you tell me yours first. Who is the pirate girl?"

So she had been following him. Did she already know who Tysha was? Was this a test that she had arranged?

"She is a woman from my past. I girl I knew as a youth who was turned away by my father. She was a common girl that my father treated as a whore. My uncle took her in and kept her safe. We recently met for the first time in fifteen years. Satisfied?"

Asher nodded, and smiled as she did. Tyrion couldn't tell if she had already known or not. She wasn't giving anything away. She was good with secrets, this one. It was almost as if she had been raised in the courts of King's Landing.

"Very well, Lannister. When I was younger I played at swords with my brother. We were blacksmith's children, so there was always weapons lying around. My brother joined the Hayford garrison when he turned six and ten years, but died a few months later, on a hunt. Killed by some outlaw. I went after the man who did it and cut his throat. Ser Josef Hayford, my Lord's son, found me, and took me in. We fell in love."

Her voice almost broke as she spoke his name, and then when she talked about how she had loved him. Tyrion tried to remember what had become olf Josef Hayford during the War of the Five Kings, but he couldn't recall. His daughter was the Lady of Hayford now, so Josef must have been amongst those killed during the war.

"You can't remember him, can you? It doesn't surprise me. My husband was no renowned fighter, nor expert politician. He did not care for large feasts or extravagant tournies. He was a good man, a kind man, and one of your father's men killed him. The manticore knight, Amory Lorch. He stormed our keep, and- And Josef went down to talk with him, to tell him that we supported King Joffrey. Your father's man cut him down where he stood, and hung him from a tree opposite our keep. They robbed his body and left him there, naked and bloody. He was their ally and they did that to him. Tell me more of the great wit of the Lannisters, son of Tywin. Tell me that and then think of my husband. Did he deserve the false justice of your father?"

"My father-"

"What lies do you have for me now, Lannister? Will you tell me stories of how your father never loved you? Of how he sentenced you to die? We both know he would never have gone through with it. You led a life in your father's shadow, yet you had all the wealth of the Rock to spend on your books and your wine and your whores. There are many here in King's Landing who would happily see the golden lion of Lannister eradicated. You would do well to remember that."

Her speech ended just as they arrived at the Lion's Gate. In front of the elaborate building was a square, and in the centre of that stood a plinth. It had been intended to hold a statue of his father, though that had been torn down and thrown in Blackwater Bay the moment that the Targaryens took the city.

Tyrion tried to remember Amory Lorch. He had been an unpleasant man. Not as strong or large as Gregor Clegane, but almost as viscious and deadly. He had supposedly killed Rhaenys Targaryen during the Sack of King's Landing, stabbing the girl near a hundred times. He was not surprised that this man would have done something such as that to Lady Asher's husband.

Her words were ominous ones though. He knew that there were plenty of individuals in this city who had reason to hate his father, and maybe even some who were ready to kill his brother, but could they be working together? Was he at threat?

All those were distractions as he walked up the stairs to the ramparts of the Lion's Gate. The gate itself had been wrought into the shape of a lion, to commemorate the fact this road was the one to Casterly Rock and the rest of the Westerlands. His uncle would have left through this gate on his journey to the Rock. The road also branched off somewhere to become the Rose Road that went to Highgarden.

On the ramparts he found Tristan Rivers waiting for him. He was one of the Golden Company men under the command of Homeless Harry Strickland. Tyrion was reluctant to trust him, but he preferred this man to Strickland or his lackeys from the Free Cities.

"What is it that you call me down here for. Rivers?"

Tristan didn't speak, just gestured over the ramparts. Tyrion followed his point, and looked out. What he saw left him taken aback.

There was an army of forty thousand men outside the walls, flying the golden rose of Highgarden.


	104. Daenerys VIII

Daenerys Targaryen found herself wandering through the ruins of the Dragonpit. This had been built to house the dragons of her family, back before they were destroyed in the infamous Dance of the Dragons. Now the dragons were reborn, and Drogon, Viserion and Rhaegal needed a home. Maybe it should be here? The two smaller dragons were quite fond of the sharp cliffs and dark stones of Dragonstone, but Drogon preferred to be wherever his mother was. She was glad about that. They had been separated for too long.

Marwyn, before his death, had told her that the Dragonpit had been the beginning of the end for the Targaryens. Dragons needed to be free if you wanted them to grow. It would be no good for them to be cramped up in a confined space. The destruction of the Dragonpit had, however, included the collapse of the roof, and so the dragons would be able to sleep here, whilst also being free to roam the skies, should they want to.

The mighty building had escaped too much damage from the great fire that had claimed the rest of the city, partly due to the lack of houses built around it. Few had wanted to live next to the volatile flame breathing creatures, and so the building stood isolated from the rest of the city.

She was not alone in the building. She turned and saw Jorah Mormont and Dareon Lonmouth stood by the great gates. Ser Barristan was not far behind her, wearing his white cloak, as he always was. Her husband, Aegon, was accompanied by Hugo Bolling, and was inspecting the blackened walls of the building. Others had joined them. Rogero and Motho were wandering around fairly aimlessly, whilst Harry Strickland and Lysono Maar were talking away in the shadows of the building.

She didn't trust the captain of the Golden Company. She had bad experience with Sellsword captains. There had been Brown Ben Plumm, of course, and before him the Titan's Bastard, Mero. Daario had proved loyal so far. He was in the Red Keep now, overseeing a building project.

Still, everytime she saw Strickland now he was whispering in the shadows. He could not be trusted. She sensed it.

"What do you think of Harry Strickland, Ser Barristan?"

Barristan looked surprised at the question when she turned around to look at him, but he adjusted his face quickly, furrowing his brow slightly. His best days had gone, alas, but Barristan the Bold was still a knight to be feared.

"He is a sellsword, your grace. At their heart all sellswords are greedy creatures. They support whoever can pay them the most. Right now that is you and your husband."

"But not if Willas Tyrell decides to oppose me and crown himself as King of the Reach. Harry's family were from the Reach originally, I hear. Would he support Willas?"

Barristan frowned slightly. The man was not a politician, but he was the Hand, so she felt like she had to consult him first when such things worried her.

"The Tyrells do indeed command a great wealth, your grace, but Strickland's family were exiled by the Tyrell family. I doubt that he would support them out of loyalty. Money, however…"

"And what of Rhaenys, my niece. Would he support her? The Rykkers, Rosbys and Stokeworths are not poor houses…"

"Maybe not once, but this war has worn their resources thin. I doubt that your niece has the monetary backing to buy the loyalty of the Golden Company."

Daenerys stopped herself and looked up at the sky above her. The white clouds passed through the wind, and moved along as soon as they could, so as to avoid her dragons. They would be coming here soon.

"The Golden Company was founded by one of my ancestors, was it not?"

"It was, your grace. It was founded by Aegor Rivers, better known as Bittersteel."

"Yes. He was a bastard. I remember from Viserys' lessons. He supported another bastard, Daemon Blackfyre, in an attempt to usurp the throne from my family. Aegor fled across the Narrow Sea, as I once did, and claimed that his Golden Company would one day place a Blackfyre on the throne."

She smiled, and walked over to the wall of the Dragonpit, running her hand against the charred stone, proud of her own memory.

"Yes, your grace, but his claim was a false one. The last Blackfyre died during the war of the Ninepenny Kings. Maelys the Monstrous was a fierce man, but-"

"But you slew him, Ser Barristan. I remember Viserys telling me that too. He told me lots of stories of the great Barristan the Bold, and of the Sword of the Morning and the White Bull, too. You killed the last Blackfyre, Ser Barristan. But what if you didn't."

Just then, another group of people stepped through the doors of the Dragonpit. Even from this distance, Daenerys recognised her supposed niece, Rhaenys, and her close friends, Lord William Dustin and Ser Bronn of the Blackwater. They were her constant companions, and her protectors. She strode into the building and looked around. Daenerys hoped that she would go to Aegon, but instead she came towards her.

"Aunt, I had heard that some of you had come here. I can not help but feel offended that I was not offered an invitation. We are family, are we not?"

"I'm not sure, my dear niece. Are we?"

She could feel the tension bubbling between the two of them. Ser Barristan did not draw his steel, but he was eyeing up Bronn and had his hand on the pommel of the blade that he had at his waist. The man was clearly not someone that her Lord Commander like the feel of. He was dangerous. She could tell that too.

"I do not know what you mean, aunt. My father was your brother, Crown Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, and my mother was the Dornish Princess, Elia Martell. I have the blood of your own father, Aerys Targaryen, in my veins. As do you. Though I suspect you have more of him than I do."

Daenerys exchanged a look with Barristan, but then turned her attention back to the girl, Rhaenys.

"I was the Khaleesi of a Dothraki Khal. I burned the Undying of Qarth and freed the slaves of Astapor, Yunkai and Meereen. I burned Qohor and brought Pentos and Norvos to their knees. What have you done, girl?"

"I have none of the worldly achievements that you have, aunt, though I suspect fewer men have died for my cause."

"Fewer men have died opposing you, too. Ask Skahaz mo Kandaq or Brown Ben Plumm what they gained from opposing the Mother of Dragons."

"Foreign men with foreign names. They are not Westerosi. What power do you have here, aside from your dragons, of course? You have the teachings of a mad brother, the marks still on your body from your rapist husband, and the ghosts of all those that you have killed on your conscience. Those two men you mentioned, did they not both start supporting you before you killed them? Pray tell me, Mother of Dragons, why is it that men seem to betray you so often. Why, even your bear-"

At that Daenerys growled, and Ser Barristan moved for his steel. Bronn went for his too, though William Dustin did not move a muscle. The man was icy calm. It was almost off-putting.

"You will not threaten the queen, whether you are her kin or not."

"That's a fancy cloak you got there, old man. Would be a shame for it to get ripped. Don't start a fight that you're too elderly to win."

Barristan glared at Bronn, who had an arrogant look in his eyes. Daenerys would love to see for her white knight to kill this upjumped cutthroat, but now was neither the time nor the place. Plus, Tyrion Lannister had told her that this Bronn was deadly with a sword, and she did not want Ser Barristan to be killed for such a trivial manner. Her white knight deserved a better death than that.

"We need not fight here, my Queens."

William Dustin stepped forward and stood between the two of them. The man had a nerve, though the eyes in his face were steady. He had a dependable look on his face. He just looked like a stable influence.

"You are both kin. We all want the same thing, to see the Seven Kingdoms united peacefully underneath the banner of the Targaryens. There has been enough bloodshed for many years on this soil."

Daenerys nodded at that, and then rested her hand on Barristan's hilt. He sheathed the steel that he had shown. The upjumped sellsword did likewise, when he saw Barristan's sword sheathed.

Just then a wind roared around the Dragonpit. Daenerys saw all those gathered there looking up at the sky in shock, but she just smiled and walked closer to the centre. She knew what was coming. She knew that her children were arriving.

Drogon came first. He was still the largest and strongest, Viserion landed on his right side. She had named him for her brother, and he wore cream scales, adorned with gold horns and wing bones. He was the smallest of the three. The last of her children, Rhaegal, landed on the left of Drogon. His scales were dark green, and he bared his black fangs at Harry Strickland, who was stood nearby to him. That caused her to smile all the more.

She ran her hand along the muzzle of Drogon, who sniffed slightly as she did, and cocked his head so that he could receive more attention. She ran her hand down the scales on his right hand side, and she could hear him growl lightly as she did, but it did not scare her. Drogon had always been loyal to her. He was her son and he would not harm her.

She then felt Viserion nuzzling his head up against her, and she turned to pet her other son. His eyes were the colour of molten gold, which had been the end of the dragon's namesake, her brother. Maybe that was some cruel irony by fate. She then felt the urge to climb on the back of her children, and so, seemingly understanding exactly what she wanted, Drogon lowered himself, so she could clamber onto his back.

She smiled as she looked out over the Dragonpit and all the people who were here. Many of them had seen her like this before. Barristan didn't look at all worried, and Rogero had a lusty look in his eyes. She would take him into her bed tonight, she thought. Aegon was an attentive lover, but he lacked the raw power of Rogero. She craved him.

It was the reaction of those that were less familiar with her children that she was interested in. Dareon Lonmouth had moved his hand to his sword, though no such reaction had come from Ser Jorah. Selwyn Tarth's mighty moustache was quivering, and Harry Strickland had backed himself further against the wall, as Rhaegal had yet to remove his gaze from the sellsword captain.

"Behold the dragons of House Targaryen. These are not just beasts. They are my children. I birthed them from their eggs with the death of my sun and stars. I raised them from small creatures to what they are now. They burned the warlocks of Qarth and the slavers of Astapor because those men were my enemies. You had all best remember this when you consider opposing me."

Her eyes were trained on Rhaenys as she spoke, but the girl didn't seem to flinch under the harsh stare. When she finished speaking she turned her gaze onto others. She focused on Harry Strickland longer than anyone else. The man was sweating profusely, which was strange given the cold that had settled over the city. He was untrustworthy. She knew it.

Drogon turned then, and she realised that a figure was approaching her dragons. She watched as Aegon ran his hand over the scales of Rhaegal, as she had done to Drogon earlier. The dragon named for her eldest brother appeared to like that, and turned to extend his snout to her husband, and Aegon then stroked that, too. His eyes met hers as he did, and Daenerys narrowed her gaze at him. He was smiling.

"They are your children, my Queen. I suppose that makes them my cousins, and my good-children, too. They seem to be fond of me."

Her children had often displayed fondness to people that deserved it. They liked Ser Jorah, for they had know him longer than most, and Ser Barristan, who had led them back to her. They were fond of Tyrion Lannister, who cared for them, and of Rogero. They disliked Homeless Harry, and most of the men of the Golden Company. Mayhaps they sensed some treachery that the Golden Company were planning.

Aegon was swift as he pulled himself up onto Rhaegal's back. The dragon offered no complaints, and soon her husband was proudly sat astride her child, looking out over the gathered people inside the Dragonpit.

"My wife is right. When our ancestor, my namesake, Aegon Targaryen, first set foot on these shores, he did so with the words Fire and Blood on his banners. The Seven Kingdoms have shed enough blood for generations. We want peace, and we will not hesitate to destroy those who oppose this. Fire and Blood should not be dispelled for meaningless reasons. We will use fire to burn away the old and start a new, better Westeros, that need not bleed for its ruler, or for its game of thrones. We can be better."

That speech received support, as Aegon always seemed to whenever he spoke about the peace that he intended to bring. Did he not see the hypocrisy in what he said? They all aspired for peace, but to do it in such a manner was counter productive. She wanted her share of vengeance as much as her nephew, but the Royces and the Tullys and the Tyrells could all be brought into line without eradicating their houses.

When she looked at Aegon she found his eyes were shifty. He looked as if he was squinting, though maybe he was just glaring at something. Or someone.

"Aegon the Conqueror had two sister wives and three dragons, each ridden by a Targaryen. We have three Targaryens and three dragons. Mayhaps the Princess Rhaenys, my sister, would wish to sit astride the third."

Aegon gestured towards Rhaenys, who looked slightly shocked by the request. She clearly hadn't been expecting it. Daenerys didn't want that bitch riding one of her children, but the look that Aegon had been making made her think that maybe this was all part of some plan of his, perhaps concocted with Jon Connington.

The girl stepped forward, and moved to stroke the snout of Viserion, the only one of her children without a rider, as Aegon had to Rhaegal. Viserion clearly did not like the movement, however, and he moved his mouth away. As Rhaenys took another step towards her son, Viserion growled. That caused Ser Bronn to step forward, his hand on the hilt of his sword. Viserion met eyes with Rhaenys, but clearly there was no connection or bond between the two.

That did not stop Rhaenys, however, as she took another step towards the last of the dragons. Bronn moved forwards with her, though he seemed reluctant in his actions. Tyrion had told her that the sellsword was no fool, and that he would not fight a battle if he did not believe himself capable of winning it. Was he fool enough to think he could duel a dragon? Few men had fought a dragon in combat, and fewer still had lived to tell about it.

Daenerys swept her eyes over the arena. It was as if each and every person in here was watching Rhaenys and Viserion with baited breath. Even Harry Strickland had left his shadows to watch what was about to unfurl.

Rhaenys made to touch Viserion's snout again, but again Viserion moved his snout away from her outsretched hand. Rhaenys then turned to her, a fiery glare in her eyes. There was dragon blood in her. The girl's eyes reminded Daenerys of Viserys. They were intense and frightening, but at the same time felt as if she was trying to over compensate for something.

"Your beasts defy me. Do they not know that I am the blood of the dragon? Can they not-"

Rhaenys' words were cut off when Viserion growled again, and reared his head up into the air. The streams of flame that he let loose engulfed the girl as she was trying to speak, and her sellsword bodyguard as well. The man managed to dive away from the centre of the fire, but there would be no hope for him, Daenerys knew. If he did not die now, then his death would be slow and painful.

There was no such fate for Rhaenys, who was consumed by the flames whole, still looking at Daenerys, not even aware that Viserion had moved his head. Daenerys could see the black shadow of Rhaenys still standing in the fire, and then the figure crumpled away into the flames. When Viserion stopped, all that remained of the girl was a pile of ash and some charred bones.

Daenerys exchanged a look with Aegon. She whispered two words to him, loud enough that he could hear, but soft enough that it was him alone that could hear.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be."

Aegon turned his back on her, as he turned Rhaegal away. Her son responded well to the movements of his new rider.

"She was not my sister. My sister was a Targaryen. Dragon fire cannot burn a Targaryen."


	105. The Learning Lion

The golden lion of Lannister fluttered in the wind over the small castle of Sarsfield. Martyn rode his horse through the large camp that had gathered beneath the walls of the castle. Besides him rode his uncle, Gerion Lannister, and behind him came Alyn Stackspear, Tybolt Crakehall and Benedict Broom. Alyn carried the Lannister banner, whilst Tybolt and Benedict carried the Crakehall and Targaryen banners respectively.

The camp was made up of all the lords of the Westerlands and the men that they had brought with them to the great council. Martyn spotted banners that bore the rooster of Swyft, the unicorn of Brax, and the gold coins of Payne. They were just some of the bigger houses in attendance. Others had come to.

There were a number of riders at the end of the path waiting for them. He recognised the rangy frame of Addam Marbrand, who was beneath the banner of Ashemark. Then there was the large figure of Raynard Ruttiger, who had come to Sarsfield with Marbrand. Between them was a young lord with sad eyes and shaggy brown hair. This must be Melwyn Sarsfield. He was the lord hosting the great council, which should have been a great honour.

"You come at last, Lord Martyn."

Addam rode forward on his brown courser.

"Most of the lords are already gathered here. We are now just waiting for Lord Roland Crakehall and Garth Greenfield, who is with him. They are expected to be here this evening."

"Then let us go inside. We should discuss strategy before the council. Not all of these lords will bend the knee just because we bring a decree from the Targaryens in King's Landing."

Gerion, Addam and Raynard led the rest of them inside, but Martyn stayed outside with melwyn Sarsfield. They looked to be a similar age, though Melwyn was actually four years older, and had turned twenty years recently. They were related by marriage. Melwyn was married to Martyn's aunt Shierle, who was ten years Melwyn's senior. Melwyn had lost his father and uncle during the war of the Five Kings and subsequent Tully invasion.

"I was sorry to hear of your father, Lord Melwyn."

"I- He- Your apology is accepted, my Lord. I am sorry that I did not answer your call sooner, but- Well, I was mourning my father. It was not such an easy loss for me to take."

Martyn understood what Melwyn was going through. He too had lost his father, who had been murdered on the orders of his cousin, Cersei, or so he suspected. He had also lost two of his brothers, and his uncle Tywin, as well as some more distant cousins. Loss was a taste that he was more than acquainted with by now.

"How do you fare? Your mother?"

Melwyn's mother was a common girl that his father had fallen for. His father had been married twice before, but neither of his highborn wives had given him any issue. Melwyn had been his only son.

"My mother- She mourns in her own way, my Lord. Losing a father and losing a husband are different things. Even if they were the same man."

Martun nodded. He got the impression that the young lord did not want to talk further about his father, and so moved his horse towards the castle. Melwyn pulled his own horse alongside him.

"It is an honour to have you here, my Lord. How do you intend to win all of them over?"

Martyn had been thinking on that question all the ride from Casterly Rock to Sarsfield. It was not a long journey, but a few days by horse. He had the Crakehalls and Marbrands of the powerful houses of the West, and the Stackspears, Ruttigers and Brooms had also chosen to follow him. Lord Crakehall had brought him the support of the Greenfields, after he moved his army to take their keep. The Sasrfields and Swyfts had also bent the knee and their banners. With the Sarsfields came the Yarwycks of Oxcross, but it still wasn't much. Oxcross had yet to recover from the battle that the Young Wolf had fought there.

His most threatening opponents were Lords Tytos Brax, who had sent his younger brother Flement to the council, Terrence kenning, who had brought more men than anyone else, Marcos Payne, who had united many of the houses of the Gold Road, and Tybald Serrett, who was the last powerful lord who stood against him in the south.

Of course, there were other houses, but most of them were supporting more powerful lords. Garrison Prester was backing Kenning, and Lords Lydden and Sarwyck were supporting Tytos. Both of them had come as part of Flement's retinue.

The one exception to this were the Farmans of Fair Isle. They had always been more separate than the rest of the Westerlands, though for many years their fleet had protected against the Ironborn reavers. Now they were threatening independence. Martyn suspected that Lord Sebaston would be one of his stronger opponents.

"I don't know Melwyn. Some may come peacefully, but I can't guarantee that all will. We can only do what we can, though. The more we persuade then the more powerful we get, and so more will come."

The rest of the ride into the keep was a quiet one. There was just the sound of hooves on the dirt track that led up to the gate. The walls that surrounded Sarsfield were neither tall nor thick, but that was fine, for the keep that resided inside was not large. The Sarsfields may have been powerful lords in the West, but that was some time ago, and their seat did not reflect any sort of prestige. Above the keep flew the banners of Sarsfield, Lannister, Marbrand and Targaryen.

Inside he found Addam Marbrand and Gerion Lannister waiting for him. He dismounted his steed and handed it off to some Sarsfield groom. He then went over to Gerion and Addam.

"They are here to see whether they should bend the knee to the dragon, uncle. That is your mission here. They should not look to me. They should look to you. Your Queen wishes to name my cousin as Lord of the Rock, that means that I hold no power and no influence."

Gerion nodded thoughtfully at that observation. Martyn had felt the pressure being piled on him ever since they departed from the Rock. He was not yet a man proper, and now was not the time to prove himself. It needed a steady set of hands, and someone that could inspire these lords to bend the knee. That was more Gerion than it ever was him.

"I agree somewhat, Martyn. Though you do yourself a disservice. It was you that had the ideas which delivered Sarsfield to our cause."

"A small keep. It is nothing for us to get excited about. Too many houses still oppose us. Besides, it was Addam and uncle Steffon who did the actual persuading that got Melwyn to bend his knee."

"Under your guidance."

Addam interjected on Martyn talking himself down.

"The double pronged move against the Sarsfield was inspired. If Melwyn hadn't decided to bend the knee from Steffon's letter when I arrived then he was when I talked with him. It was a clever play."

Maybe it had been, though he hadn't really thought that far ahead. Asking uncle Steffon to write to aunt Shierle had been an improvised decision. It had worked, sure, but it hadn't been an inspired plan or a clever play. It had been pure luck that the plan had worked.

"If you feel this way, Martyn, then I shall take the lead tonight when some of the powerful lords come into discuss terms. I still desire you by my side for counsel and advice. I do not know most of these men. I am sure that you have a better grasp on them than I do."

Just then a horn was blown above the gate. It was one lengthy blow that resounded through the courtyard. Everyone's eyes went first to the man atop the gate, and then to the gate itself, intent to see who it was that approached. Maybe it was Roland Crakehall.

No, it couldn't be. Lord Crakehall wasn't expected to arrive until the evening.

Martyn was right. It wasn't Lord Crakehall who rode through the gate. Instead it was a thickset man dressed in riding garb. He was bald, with a strong jawline and steely eyes, which were the colour of silver. Behind him flew his family's flag. Martyn felt the man's eyes sweep across the courtyard, and then settle on him. He dismounted himself, with no help required, and strode over to them. This was Lord Marcos Payne.

The Paynes had been one of the first houses that he had sent ravens to. They commanded the loyalty of Houses Vikary and Peckledon, and many others held the Lord of the Paynefort in high regard. They had always been leal vassals though. He had not expected them to defy him.

He had not expected Marcos Payne, however. He had been but a boy when he had first sent the ravens. With each rejection that he felt he had become more of a man. Marcos had been one of the first to reject his rule.

The Lord of the Paynefort was a man renowned for his strength and willpower. He had been a household knight to his brother when this all began, but had become Lord when his brother had been slain at Oxcross, along with Stafford Lannister. He was married, but bore no heirs. Some said that his sons were so scared of Marcos' steely glare that they refused to leave their mother's womb. Martyn didn't hold much stock in such tales, but there was no doubt in his minds that the man would make a terrifying father.

"I come to speak with whichever lion it is that wishes for the Westerlands to bend the knee before some dragon bitch in the east. Would that be you, boy?"

Martyn was about to respond, when he had found the right words to use, but Gerion swept in front of him. It was he who talked instead.

"No. That would be I. Ser Gerion Lannister, my Lord Payne. I am here on the orders of my nephew, Tyrion Lannister, who shall rule as Lord of Casterly Rock, and the true King and Queen, Aegon and Daenerys Targaryen."

Gerion was a braver man than Martyn had given him credit for. It took a bold man to speak against Marcos Payne. Or a downright foolish one.

The Paynes bore coins upon their shields due to the wealth of their house. They had been the third wealthiest Westerlands house when the Reynes had risen in rebellion, and had become the second with their extinction. They worked mines of gold and tolled the road. Since the death of Martyn's uncle, however, they had started to become more like bandits on the gold road, robbing traveller's blind or in their sleep. If they came across any merchants from the Riverlands then they would have them hung and their wives and daughters raped.

Those were actions that Marcos was encouraging, even if he didn't publicly acknowledge it. The gold road had become too dangerous for regular travellers, and even the most confident hedge knights were trying to find different ways around. All this was happening whilst the Lord of the Paynefort gradually became richer.

Some said that his brother, Ser Steffon Payne, was actually the man leading the brigands, though these reports hadn't been confirmed. Steffon was one of the nobles that was absent from the council.

"I followed your brother, Tywin, into battle with Aerys Targaryen, the Mad King. I then followed him again when he declared for the boy Joffrey Baratheon, and then Tommen Baratheon after him. You are not Tywin Lannister, neither is your little nephew here, nor the Imp who waddles in the east."

"My brother was a great man in many respects, Lord Marcos."

Gerion stepped forward, and stood opposite the Lord of the Paynefort. Martyn saw a hard look in the eyes of both men. Neither was going to back down here.

"Men followed out of fear, and not love. That was always his policy. The opinions of the sheep did not matter to him, and yet now his legacy is that his family is in disarray, and the people who followed him rise against his heirs. That is what fear does. Love can do different things. Follow Tyrion and you will be rewarded with kindness and forgiveness."

There was no response from Marcos for a few seconds. The two men carried on their stare, and then Marcos blinked and looked away. An admission of defeat, maybe?

"I shall give you my answer before the council this evening, Gerion. I must confer with my advisors who the Paynefort shall support."

Gerion nodded and turned away. He put his arm around Martyn and quietly escorted him into a stable. Nobody else followed them. Martyn watched as Marcos left the castle.

"Why did he come if he was not here to bend the knee?"

"I summoned him. The Paynefort commands multiple major houses, but that isn't all. It's the first large castle on the Gold Road, and with it on our side then we can have Hornvale surrounded. He also holds a lot of sway over the Lyddens of Deep Den. With his support, the eastern houses will bend their banners and their knees as fast as you could tell them. Then we just need focus on the Kennings and the Serretts. Even they won't hold out long."

"A smart move then. If he bends the knee, obviously. He might not. He probably won't. He has become very wealthy off the back of his opposing Lannister rule."

"And he will become very wealthy when Tyrion pardons him and offers to make his brother the Lord of Castamere."

Steffon Payne was a brigand, and he had less honour than any man that Martyn knew. Castamere may once have been the second most important castle in the West, but now it was a desolate ruin. Maybe the match would be a fitting one. Still, it felt like one final insult to the Castamere name to have their ancestral castle given to someone like Steffon.

"Get yourself ready, nephew. We will be having many guests soon, and we should look presentable."

Martyn nodded, and then headed into the building. The castle's stewards showed him to the chambers that he had been given. The rooms were small, and a Lannister banner was hung on the wall. He changed out of his riding gear, and into some more formal clothes. A red and gold jerkin and a red cloak clasped with a golden dancing lion. He left the room then, and started to head towards the great hall.

He was distracted as he went, by the sound of a man's voice. He was singing. It was a sweet voice, but not that of a young man. Someone closer to his forties than his teens. He found a door slightly ajar, and poked his head inside.

"And now the rains weep o'er his hall, with not a soul to hear…"

The man singing had his back to Martyn. His back was burned near black, and the flesh was twisted around where it had been melted. He still had the golden hair of the Lannisters, however. The man singing was his uncle, Gerion.

He left the room as quietly as he could, and headed down to the feats. Why would Gerion have been criticising his brother earlier if only for now to be singing the song which commemorated the thing that Uncle Tywin had regarded as his greatest achievement? What sense did that make, and what preparation did it make for convincing the lords of the Wets that they should turn against the ideals that Tywin had tried to instil in them.

They had feared Martyn's uncle because of what he had done to the Tarbecks and the Reynes. Not just the Western Lords, but the realm as a whole. Few men had been willing to stand against the whims of Tywin Lannister. Was the Imp like that? Martyn had never really known his cousins. They had spent most of their time in King's Landing and not at Casterly Rock.

He wasn't sure that he wanted to foloow a man who would embrace the methods and motivations of his uncle Tywin. Whether that be another uncle in Gerion, or his cousins in Tyrion or Jaime. He wanted this issue to be ended peacefully, and not with the extinction of houses.

The great hall was nearly full when he arrived at the point where he was due to enter from. He found that Damon Marbrand was here already, as was Melwyn Sarsfield. They would be two of the men to sit on the high dais with himself and Gerion. They would be joined by Lord Crakehall, Martyn's uncle, Steffon Swyft, and Garth Greenfield, who had bent the knee to Roland. Those three had yet to arrive, however.

He could hear a lot of clamour in the hall as they waited. The feasting had begun, and many men were singing tales of victories and triumphs, both on the battlefield and in the bedroom. He hoped that the evening didn't become too bawdy.

Soon they were joined by his uncle Steffon, who was dressed in robes of yellow and blue. They were tasteful, and didn't display much of his waistline. Then came Greenfield, in the company of large Roland Crakehall. The large man was dressed in the outfit of a warrior, and wore a cloak of brown. Greenfield cowered behind him. He was mostly here as symbolism to the other lords.

The last to come was Gerion, who arrived in the company of Addam Marbrand. The knight was listening to something that Gerion had to say, but upon arriving quickly left, after sharing a nod with his father.

"Roland and Damon should walk in first. Then Garth and Melwyn. Martyn, you shall walk with Steffon, and then I shall come last and take my place at the centre."

Gerion was taking charge, and all of the men nodded at what he said. That surprised Martyn, as he knew that Damon and Roland were both strong willed men. Maybe they respected Gerion already.

The clamour quietened down as they started to walk in and take their places upon the dais and the high table which was placed upon it. Roland and Damon sat at either ends, as two lords that had always stayed loyal to the Lannister lion. Then sat Melwyn and Garth, as two that had seen the error of their ways. That meant that it was time for himself to walk.

He did so, and was surprised by the quietness that had fallen over the room by that point. Someon coughed during his walk, but he payed it no mind. He looked at the men as he passed. They were the men that needed convincing. Some of their eyes were hard and stony, others jovial, but all were judging him. Trying to work out whether his words would make them bend the knee.

He seated himself beside Melwyn Sarsfield, and looked out over the hall. It was nowhere near as large as the one at the Rock, but then that was to be expected. It didn't need to be large. It just needed to fit in all the gathered lords and whichever knights that they had brought with them.

No sooner had he sat down than he heard Gerion sit down beside him. He clearly hadn't waited long before following Martyn and Steffon out into the hall. He hadn't heard his uncle's tread behind him. Maybe he had been too focused on the gathered crowd.

It was only a few seconds after Gerion sat when the sounds of a man's footsteps echoed around the hall. A few men mumbled, and other's moved aside to let the moving man past. It was Marcos Payne, of course. Behind him came Lymond Vikary and Jormon Peckledon, his bannermen. Martyn could see Steffon Payne watching on from the shadows. Gerion rose.

"I, Gerion Lannister, recognise Lord Marcos Payne approaching. I ask him what he wishes to say."

The words echoed through the hall, and for a few seconds were met with silence. Marcos looked back up at Gerion. They exchanged another staring battle.

"I followed Tywin Lannister when he fought against Aerys Targaryen. I followed him when he supported Joffrey Baratheon, and fought for him upon the Blackwater. My family has always counted itself amongst the most fiercely loyal to the lion of Casterly Rock. I shall not change that today. You have my sword, Ser Gerion, and my word."

Marcos sank to his knee, which promoted mumbling in the room. Lord Vikary and Peckledon followed him in doing so, and then three men intoned the words which all Western lords swore to the Rock.

"We today acknowledge the oaths of our forefathers. We heed the will of our people. We will give our swords, and our shields, and our gold in service to the Rock. Our families shall serve, and our support shall be true and these words binding. By the Father, the Mother, the Warrior, the Smith, the Maiden, the Crone, and the Strange we swear to serve for all the days to come."

"Then I would ask you to rise, and for any other noble men to step forward and pledge their allegiances."

He watched on as Lewys Lydden and Guncer Serrett followed Lord Marcos up, to pledge the support of the Deep Den and Silverhill. Then came Lords Turnberry, Yarwyck, Algood and Hammell stepped forward to bend the knee. Phillip Plumm did so too, and protestrated that he had always wished to support the Lannisters, that he was just waiting to do so.

Soon enough almost all of the lords that had opposed his rule had bent their knees and sworn their oaths in the name of Tyrion Lannister. The only ones who now stood in opposition were the Lords of Kayce and Feastfores, as well as Ser Flement Brax and Sebaston Farman. Brax would not last long. Most of those who had initially followed him had now bent the knee.

"I am glad that I have convinced so many loyal men to follow me, but I am also deeply sad to see so many great houses standing against me in opposition. I would ask you, my Lords, what it is that you desire so much to risk all of this?"

"Your little Imp is not his father, Lannister."

That was Lord Kenning, and Martyn could see Lord Prester nodding behind him. Flement Brax was slouched against a wall, and Sebaston Farman was sat separate from the rest of them.

"Gone are the days where House Lannister can intimidate a vassal into loyalty by simply sending a singer. Your brother may have talked my father down from revolt with some music, but, well, you aren't your brother. You hold no power over Fair Isle."

"It is not song that I am offering, Lord Farman. It is fire and blood. Do you care to have the vengefui dragons of Targaryen coming to your keep? Do you remember what fate befell Houses Hoare and Gardener when they opposed the dragons?"

Martyn frowned at that. He didn't want to gain the support of these lords thr4ough threatening the lives of them and their family. He could see Sebaston Farman and Garrison Prester react to the threat, but Lord Kenning and Flement Brax remained nonplussed by the way Gerion spoke.

"They will come for you if you don't bend the knee, and wreak fire and blood on your homes, lands and people. So bend the knee and be spared. That is your choice."

"No."

Martyn rose from his seat, and looked to Gerion. Muttering voices came forward from the lords that had already been submitted.

"I will not sit by and allow these threats to happen. These lords should bend their knees because of their family's sworn oaths to mine. Not because of the threat posed by some foreign invaders."

"Look. The little lion bickers with the aged beast. What more reason do we have to not bend the knee before them. Come, Garrison, let us leave these weak lords that cannot stand for their own thoughts and what is right. They can bend their knees if they want, but they shall not find mine so."

And so Lord Kenning left, with Garrison Prester following just behind him. Flement Brax and Sebaston Farman didn't move. Soon the rest of the lords who had bent the knee left the hall, with Marcos Payne at their head. That left just him and Gerion. His uncle leant over to him.

"That was a poor choice, Martyn. It was an empty threat. I did not mean it. A wiser man would have known that. Now none of them will bend the knee, and we look weaker to any of the lords that actually did. Now I must go and limit whatever damage has been done."

His uncle stormed off, and Martyn placed his head in his hands. How had he not read that? Was it the fact that he had seen Gerion singing that song before they came down? Why had his uncle not explained the ploy, if he was planning on using it as a last resort? That would have saved them from all of this.

He rose from his own seat, and left the main hall by a side passage that led somewhere. He wasn't sure where. He didn't know the castle well enough. Suddenly, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned and threw his own arm out, but it was stopped in mid-swing by the man who had approached him. He recognised Flement Brax, with Sebaston Farman stood behind him.

"Woah, little lion. I am no enemy, as much as I may seem like it. If anything, I am a friend. Lord Kenning has approached us to secure our support against you, your cousin, and your uncle. We do not want that."

"Whatever I said in there, my family has always been loyal to Casterly Rock. The Farmans of Fair Isle are trustworthy allies of the family Lannister."

"And so what are you suggesting? If you claim to be this loyal then why are you opposing my uncle when he calls for knees to be bent."

Sebaston shook his head. Flement readjusted his stance.

"My brother figures that your family could do with having eyes amongst your enemies. Lord Kenning is not alone in his opposition of you, and has friends amongst the lords who bent the knee to you. I would imagine that you could use friends amongst those who didn't."

Martyn cocked his head slightly, and then looked down at the ground. Maybe having the secret support of these two powerful men.

"The deal comes under two conditions."

Flement nodded as Sebaston spoke, and then picked up the conditions.

"Your uncle cannot know. He has been gone for too long. We cannot be sure that he can be trusted. The other condition is that our families must be protected. Your uncle's threat… It was an empty one. We know that, but Marcos Payne is a violent man, and we know that he will use this as an opportunity to oppose us and take our land. Protect us, and you will know absolutely everything that those plotting against your family plan."

Flement placed his hand on Martyn's shoulder.

"Do we have a deal?"


	106. The Captain of the Guard

Archibald knelt down, and felt the sand beneath him. It was grainy and dry, yellow and orange. Whne he looked up he saw the Sandship, setting out to sail on the dunes of Dornish sand. The Shadow City was built beneath the walls of Sunspear, and he was looking up to it. There was a deathly quiet in the air, as if everyone here had held their breath all at once. It was more than that, though. It was expectant and waiting. Waiting for something to come. Waiting for something to happen. The people here still wanted war, but they weren't sure who with.

The Lannisters had been pretty much destroyed, as had the family of the Usurper, save for his younger brother, who was far away in the North. King's Landing was held by Aegon, who was the son of Elia Martell, Doran's sister and the dead wife of Rhaegar Targaryen. The Dornish wanted revenge for her, so they could hardly go and wage war on her son.

That confusion was rife throughout Dorne. He could feel it in the air everywhere.

He walked into the city, and through the streets, which were nearly empty. Occasionally the odd child scampered down an alleyway, or a woman hurried into her home and closed the blinds. Why was that? Were they trying to avoid him? Why would that be the case?

The castle itself was poorly manned. He had to wait for a half hour outside the gates before they were opened, and when they did it was a green boy, with thin arms and a face covered in red spots. Most of the Martell men of Sunspear had gone north with one of Arianne, Trystane or Manfrey Martell. Many of them would have died along with Trystane and Nymeria Sand in the destruction of King's Landing. This boy was likely one of their sons.

When he had last been here, the courtyard had been lively. Manfrey Martell had been training men with vigorous regimes, and the elderly steward Ricasso had been busying himself around the castle, telling off some of the maids. Ricasso wouldn't have gone north, but he was nowhere to be seen. The courtyard was pretty much empty.

"Ser Yronwood, I see that you have returned. It is a good sight to see you walking through those gates."

He looked up, and saw Allyria Dayne stood upon a balcony, looking out at him. She was where a whisp of silk that covered her breasts and her cunt. Her midriff and legs were exposed. She rushed down from the balcony, and came out to him, wrapping her arms around him. Archibald responded in kind, reciprocating the embrace tenderly. He wasn't sure whether there was any actual feeling in the hug from her side.

"Did you get it done?"

The words were whispered straight into his ear. So that was why she hugged him. To get close and ask him whether or not he had succeeded without being overheard. The boy that had let him in was still lingering nearby, maybe trying to overhear their conversation.

"The deed is done. The Darkstar is dead, as is Obara Sand who was with him. Your nephew's hold on Starfall is safe, and Doran's agent is silenced. He will not be bothering you anymore, my Lady."

She pulled away, a wide smile on her beautiful, shapely face. Her eyes flashed to the youth, but then back to him. She laughed in a sing song manner.

"That is good news indeed, my love. Come with me to my chambers. We can talk about our wedding more then. That is what you want, isn't it?"

He nodded, and she took her by his hand and led him into the building, and up some spiral stairs to her chambers. The room was decorated with pink and purple lace curtains. There was a sword held up in a bracket on the wall.

"That is what you think it is, Ser Yronwood. My nephew felt that it was irresponsible to leave Dawn at Starfall, where it would have been all too easy for Gerold Dayne to have gotten his hands on it. Now that he is dead we need not worry about this sort of thing. Tell me, Archibald, did he beg you not to do it? Did he beg for his life?"

"He did not. He told me not to trust you. He said that you would use me, as you used him. What did he mean by that, Allyria?"

"You should not believe every word that comes out of the mouth of a snake. They should not be trusted, and most of what they say are lies."

She walked towards him, and placed her palm on his chest. Her lips brushed against his.

"I promised you that you could trust me, and that when Gerold was done with I would not only take your hand in marriage, but also take you into my bed. Would you rather that, or mistrust me because of the words of a traitor and a brigand. Gerold would have styled himself Lord of Starfall and the Vulture King reborn. I would style myself Lady Yronwood. Is that not enough?"

"I am no mercenary or sellsword-"

"I know that, my love. You are the Big Man of Yronwood. A man with more honour than common sense at times. You should trust me over some fork-tongued viper."

He looked into her sultry eyes, and let out a heavy breath.

"It is as you say. Gerold Dayne was a liar, and I hold no faith in his stories. I will not prioritise what he said over how I feel for you."

He was about to force her against the wall of her chambers and kiss her when the door to the room opened with a squeak. In the doorway stood an attractive woman with dark hair and an alluring body. He recognised her as being Ellaria Sand, who had been paramour to Oberyn Martell, and was now staying here as a guest of Doran. He had met her briefly when he and Gerris had returned from the east. He had not known that she was friends with Allyria.

Ellaria eyed him up with some scepticism, before entering the room. There was a sultry way about the manner of her walk. She did not lack confidence.

"I did not know that you had company, Allyria. Were we not meant to be discussing our plans for this evening? There is to be a feast, I hear."

"Of course. The meeting slipped my mind. I was just so delighted to hear that Archibald had returned home, and that the Darkstar had been killed. He had been causing my nephew many problems."

There was an awkward silence then, and Archibald looked between the two woman. They were both looking at the other. He couldn't help but feel like he was intruding on some private moment. In fact, he knew that he was. There was more than friendship between these two. He could see it in their eyes.

"I should leave, my lady. We can talk more at this feast, and then after, too."

He turned to the door and bowed his head to the bastard paramour.

"Lady Ellaria, it is good to see you again."

He moved to leave, but Ellaria grabbed him by the wrist. There was a look of desperation in her eyes as she leaned in.

"My daughters?"

"They are safe, my Lady. I did not take them with me when I fought the Darkstar. They stayed at Starfall, as safe as can be. They should be arriving at the castle for this evening."

"You have my thanks, Ser Archibald. For everything."

She let him go then, and turned to Allyria. He moved to close the door as he left, but stopped, when he heard a snippet of their conversation.

"So, the Darkstar is finally dead. He has run out of pieces then. My love's other daughters are all perished or missing, and Sarella does not serve him. Not like the others did."

Those were the words of Ellaria. Was she talking about Doran's pieces? The daughters must be the Sand Snakes. The three eldest were all now dead. Sarella Sand was missing, and had not been seen for nearly three years now.

"There are pieces still. The princess and her bastard guardsman. Gerris Drinkwater may not have love for Doran but he did his son, and then there is the Orphan knight and the Dalt heir. They are fools both, but they would do anything for the princess."

"Arianne is dealt with. Elia is looking after her. She will not harm her cousin, but we do not want her harmed. There is another, Allyria. He must be dealt with."

"And he will be. I need time."

"Time that we do not have. Luxuries cannot be spent on frivolities such as this. End it now and end it quickly. It must be done."

That was the last that he heard, for the door was closed properly. When he turned he found that the man who closed it was a young maester, with silky hair and a smell of perfume about him. He was an unfamiliar face to Archibald.

"You are Ser Archibald of Yronwood, yes? My name is Myles. I am maester of Sunspear. I have been sent to bring you before the Prince of Dorne, upon his veranda."

Words were not needed here. Archibald nodded, and followed the man, who deftly climbed the stairs of the castle, and navigated the twisting corridors. Eventually they came out on a balcony, which looked out over the empty courtyard. Doran Martell was seated on his wheeled chair, staring off into the distance. In the corner stood another man, who was also dressed in the grey robes of a maester.

Doran looked much like Archibald remembered him being. Not that he had expected the man to have changed much in appearance. He wore a blanket over his lap, and his eyes looked more sunken, but that was it. There was a sad, wistful look in the man's eyes. When he saw that Archibald had arrived he waved the two maesters away, and they promptly left.

"Greetings once again, Ser Yronwood. I heard tell that you had returned by boat, so naturally I summoned you as soon as I could. I find it curious that you came from the south. Should a ship from Yronwood not come towards Sunspear from the northern seas?"

"Of course. My Prince, but the ship I was on docked in Lys on the way. The captain wished to avoid the Stepstones, so we sailed around and came towards Sunspear from the south."

Doran nodded his head slightly, and tugged at his chin with one of his hands. He was deep in thought.

"A wise man, that captain. The Stepstones are thriving with pirates and traitors more than they have ever been in my lifetime. Yet they do not touch Dorne. Do you know why that is, Ser Archibald?"

"I do not, my Prince."

"They fear Dorne. They know we have no ships, not since Nymeria burned her Rhoynish fleet, and yet they fear us. A viper is best not stepped on, for their bite is poisonous. My brother may have been the more violent one, but I should not be stepped on either. A wise man would know that."

Doran pulled a scrap of paper from underneath his blanket and handed it to Arch. He didn't have the time to read it before the Prince of Dorne started to speak again.

"It is a letter, Ser Archibald, from your captain. You did not visit Lys on your way home. You chartered your ship from Starfall. That is why you came from the south. I dislike liars, Ser. Tell me, why were you there?"

The Prince was smarter than Arch had given him credit for. He had eyes and ears across Dorne, it seemed. Was Edric one of those? Did Doran already know why he had visited Starfall?

"I was seeking permission to ask Lady Allyria for her hand. Her husband is dead, and a widow aunt may be able to marry an Yronwood cousin. I desired Lord Edric's opinion before asking, however, so I rode from Yronwood to Starfall to ask him, and then took my boat from there to here to ask her."

Doran hadn't moved his hand away from his beard. He was still in thought.

"So are congratulations in order?"

"I think they are."

Doran let out a laugh at that point. It wasn't singsong or wheezing. It was neither a pleasant nor an unpleasant sound.

"I think it is common order for a man to know whether their proposal has been accepted, Ser Yronwood. Did something interrupt you?"

"Actually yes, my Prince. Lady Ellaria arrived most unexpectedly. I did not know that the two of them were friends."

"Then perhaps you do not know Allyria all that well. She had been spending much time with my brother's lover. Ellaria is a wilful woman, and she does like the company of the other sex. It was a large part of what my brother found attractive in her. She loves to explore and have her fair share of adventure."

Doran sighed slightly. Archibald thought that it was because Ellaria reminded him of his brother, the Red Viper.

"Ellaria's father is Harmen Uller. I have sent raven after raven to him asking for his support and yet none have been returned. I get the same response from Lord Fowler, and the new lord Gargelen. Dorne turns against me more and more by the day."

"They wish to see action, my Prince. That is all. If you were to show a desire to avenge the deaths of your family-"

"I know what it is that Dorne desires, Ser Yronwood. They want blood and fire. Who should I be fighting. Tywin Lannister is dead, and all those who murdered my sister along with him are too. Cersei Lannister has been killed, and so the murders of my dear Trystane and my nieces cannot be avenged. Should I go after the Lannister dwarf because Oberyn died representing him? Or what is left of House Tyrell because of some grudge between our families? Dorne wants blood that I cannot give. I had my plans and my plots but I did not predict the destruction of King's Landing. How could I have?"

Archibald could not respond to that, of course. How could he? The prince was right. Dorne had not been satiated with blood, and yet those who had wronged them were now dead. Who remained? Balon Swann in the Red Mountains?

The sound of a door opening came behind them, and Ellaria Sand and Allyria Dayne slipped in. They were still dressed in the same clothes as earlier. Hadn't that young maester been watching the door? Had he allowed the two women to enter without asking his prince's permission? That didn't seem fitting for a maester in service to the ruling lord of a region.

"My Ladies, I did not expect to see you so soon. I was just about to come down for the feast. Do you have something that you wish to discuss with me?"

"We do, my Prince. We have several things in fact. The first is my nephew."

It was Allyria who spoke, and swayed towards Doran, falling to her knees in front of him, and running her fingers along his knees. Ellaria stayed back, and in a corner. Doran seemed unperturbed by where Allyria was knelt. Arch found himself looking around. The tone of the room had just changed.

"When I first came to you I offered you a marriage between Edric and your niece, Elia. I would like to inform you that Edric will soon have himself a wife that he will be very happy with. Your niece is no longer required."

Doran smiled slightly.

"That is good news. My niece has her place, either here with Arianne, or watching over the Water Gardens. That is where I was planning to send her. They will need a new custodian if I am to be spending more time at Sunspear, which seems to be the case. May I ask who it is that your nephew intends to marry."

Allyria laughed.

"Some older girl, I think. He tells me that she is most beautiful and alluring, with large breasts and full lips. You know how boys his age tend to think of those things first. After all, you were a boy his age once, too."

"I was, but those days were many years ago, and even then I did not embrace my adulthood in the same way that my beloved brother did. He was always the passionate one. I have never had that inside me. Not with any woman except my Mellario anyway."

Archibald had never met Mellario of Norvos, who was Prince Doran's wife, but he had heard stories. She had come over to Dorne with her sworn shield, who had been Doran's Captain of the Guard until his recent death. She had gone slightly mad by the end of her time in Sunspear. She had threatened to harm herself, was what Archibald had heard. Though nobody had told these stories in front of Quentyn.

Many of the people in Yronwood had liked the young Prince, despite his connections with the Red Viper, who had once wronged the house. He knew that many people would have been saddened to hear of his death in the far east.

"There is still time, my Prince. Maybe the right woman for you is out there, just waiting for you to display your passion. Just waiting for you to be more like your brother, and take this world by the horns. Live life to it's fullest and in the name of those you have lost."

"You ask of me the same thing you have been asking for months. You want war, Lady Allyria. I know that. I cannot give you what you desire. Who should I fight? None of those to the north of us are amongst those who have wronged us. It would be throwing away more Dornish lives for nothing."

Allyria looked down at the ground, and then back up Doran. Archibald could see that her facial expression had changed. Gone was the laughing smile. It was now replaced with a grim smile, which closer matched the sadness in her eyes.

"I was worried that was what you would say."

The movement of her hands was too fast for Archibald to see it, and the next thing he knew a knife was buried in the chest of Doran Martell, who spluttered slightly under the contact, but it was not a lethal stab. He was still alive.

"You… You would… Do this?"

Arch realised quickly that he was not talking to Allyria, who had risen to her feet, taking some steps backwards. It was as if she was in some sort of shock in regards to the actions that she had initiated. It was in fact Ellaria that Doran was talking to. Of course. She must have known what Allyria was planning.

"My brother… He… He loved you… With all his… Heart. He would not… Want this."

"You're right, my Prince. Your brother would not want this. My Oberyn wanted justice for your dead sister. Justice you could not give."

Doran's breaths were wheezing and raspy. He was struggling with every word. Archibald watched on, unable to move. Did the prince think that he had been part of this plot against his life?

"You think…. You think I am weak?"

"No. I think you are too cautious. You cannot give Dorne what it wants. You say you wish to spare Dornish lives, but each of those men would lay down their lives for Oberyn. Lay down their lives for Dorne. You think you know what is best for them, Doran, but you don't. You never have. This is what you can give them. You can die a martyr."

"You kill me… To avenge dead Martells?"

"It was not just Martells who died during the Usurper's Rebellion, or during the Sack of King's Landing. Not just Martells that died when King's Landing was burned to the ground by Cersei Lannister. Dalts and Daynes, Fowlers and Santagars, Yronwoods and Ullers. If another Martell has to die to deliver justice for them and that is the only way, then I am sorry but it must be done. I truly am sorry, Doran. If you had read another book at the right time then I think you would have been the man Dorne needed. But right now this is all that you can do to give Dorne what it wants and needs."

Allyria stepped forward, and pulled the knife from Doran's chest. The force of the removal caused the dying Prince of Dorne to tumble forward from his wheeled chair and onto the paved stones. Allyria looked down at him, and then her eyes looked to his, and for a few seconds they locked.

"I'm sorry, Archibald. I should have told you. I was going to tell you."

"It has to be done, Allyria. We swore to each other. There could be no witnesses if this sacrifice was going to be worthwhile."

Allyria raised the knife, but then dropped it to the ground. She backed away from him, towards the edge of the balcony. He thought for a second that she was going to throw herself from it, but she stopped, with her hand rested against the cold marble. Arch realised that he was shaking slightly. Was it out of rage? Was he upset at the death of the prince or the betrayal of Allyria? She had used him for her ends. Just as the Darkstar had said she would.

He then looked down at the knife. It was stained with the blood of the Dornish Prince. It was just ordinary steel. There was nothing special about the dagger. Well, there had been nothing special about it. Now it was the dagger that killed Doran Martell. Many in Dorne would celebrate that blade.

"You weren't supposed to be here, Archibald. We were going to kill Doran and then tell Dorne that it was a Lannister assassin. Ellaria's father was ready to lead them all to Casterly Rock, if need be. You weren't supposed to be here. No-one was supposed to be here."

"The maester?"

She shook her head slightly, and he could see the glint of tears falling from her sad, beautiful eyes. He felt like he could forgive her for this.

"Allyria-"

Then he felt the cold steel push through his throat, and out through the front. It had come from behind. He hadn't heard her footsteps, but he knew who it was that had done this. It had to be Ellaria Sand, the Red Viper's paramour.

He slumped to his knees, not clutching at his throat. He knew the wound was fatal. His vision started to worsen, and he looked up at Allyria. There was no happiness on her face, and it was the last thing he saw before falling to the floor, to die on the floor alongside his prince.


	107. Theon VI

The stone faces of the dead looked down on Theon as he walked through the crypts of Winterfell. They were lit up by a torch, held by Damon-Dance-For-Me. He was inspecting each of the faces, and laughed at some of them, but only the ones that he found amusing. Some of them had mustaches had looked too bristly, or had a mole carved onto their cheeks. They were joined by three other people. There was young Devan Seaworth, who also held a torch, and looked pale and frightened, and Abel, the singer. Apparently him and the red woman were friends. He had bene waiting for them at the entrance to the crypts.

They had woken him early that morning. Damon had still looked tired, whilst Devan had merely looked tired and pale, though he very rarely looked well. The red woman had been the only one of them that had looked awake, although truth be told she rarely slept. Theon had seen her bed. It was unslept in since she had arrived in Winterfell. Some of the men said that she shared the king's bed instead.

He had not expected Abel to join them. He hadn't even known that he and the red woman were familiar with each other, let alone close enough friends to be conspirators. Why was he here? What was his purpose? What was his game?

The red woman was leading them through the second level of the crypts. There were many layers. Enough to house the remains of thousands upon thousands of Starks. Every single one of them glared down at Theon. Every single one of them remembered what he had done to Winterfell. What he had done to Bran and Rickon.

He had seen the body of the young Stark boy after it had hit the hard cold ground. It was a fall that Bran had survived, but the ground had been softer then, and Bran had been healed by Maester Luwin. Rickon didn't have that, and he was dead before he hit the ground anyway, or so one of the maesters said. Apparently he had been stabbed through the heart with a small, thin knife and then thrown from the tower. Stannis was still looking for the killer. It meant that once again there was no true Stark in Winterfell.

"She's got a nice arse on her, doesn't she, Greyjoy? Or had your eyes not wandered that far down? I wouldn't blame them."

He turned, and found Abel walking alongside him. He spoke in a hushed whisper, for even talking at normal volume echoed in this place. There was a smug look on the man's face, and his eyes danced in his hard, lined face.

"Don't play the innocent kinslayer and Turncloak with me, Greyjoy. Holly has been telling me all about what you have been up to in my chambers whilst I have been away. She says that you are better with your tongue than your cock. Is that true? I don't judge, boy. We are all free to be skilled at whatever we choose."

"Holly- She isn't a good person. Neither are you. Whoever you are. I know that Abel is a lie. I know it. I worked it out. Why else would you know the red woman and Lord Manderly? Why else would they show so much faith in you?"

Abel laughed. It was a sing song laugh, not fitting with his face, but plenty suiting his eyes. He then leaned down and whispered some words straight into Theon's ear.

"You're right, Greyjoy. Abel is a lie. My name is Mance Rayder, the King-beyond-the-Wall."

Those words didn't echo around the crypt, but they did in Theon's head. He couldn't get them out. This man was the Mance Rayder? The one that had terrorised the Night's Watch for years? He had heard Eddard Stark worry about the King-beyond-the-wall, and this was the man? Why did he have the faith of Lord Manderly and the red woman? She should be burning this man, not placing her faith into him or trusting him to partake in her plans.

The last time he had heard about Mance Rayder was when Ramsay had been crowing about the man's death. He had heard that Stannis had burned the pretender king alive, and that had caused him much humour. Had that been a lie? Why would Stannis lie about that?

"No. You're dead. You can't be here."

"When you've seen the things that I've seen, Greyjoy, you would know that death is no obstacle for people turning up where they shouldn't be. Besides, the realm thought you were dead, too, and did you not die? Theon Greyjoy perished and Reek was born. Now Theon is back amongst the living, and the servant of House Bolton is the one who is dead."

The way that Abel talked was soft and sing song. Theon bit down on his lip. Even as the words passed into his ears he knew them to be true. Abel was a lie. Abel had always been a lie. He was a wildling, just like Holly and the others. That explained why those women could fight and protect themselves. It didn't explain why Abel was here, though. Or why Abel would share the information of his identity now.

"Does talking about death and rebirth here leave you scared, Greyjoy? Do you ever think of the ghosts of the men that you have killed, and how this is where their bones should reside? I hear that Stannis has finally allowed for a statue of Robb Stark to be constructed, to sit alongside his father. Mayhaps they should bury you along with him. Alive and screaming for forgiveness."

Robb. He dreamt of him every night. He begged him for forgiveness every night. How could this wildling impostor know that, though? Had Holly heard him and told her master all bout his night terrors? Of course she had. He knew that he couldn't trust her, and now that he knew who Abel truly was, he knew exactly why she held such loyalty to him. He was her king. Just as Robb had been to him. He hoped for Holly's sake that she would never betray Abel the same way that he had betrayed Robb.

"Will you come down here when it is done and look up into his stony, dead eyes and-"

"Silence, Abel. I have seen what has become of the dead recently, and I would not speak such mocking words when surrounded by them. Your purpose has been served. Leave us, you have more work to do in the castle proper."

The red woman had turned to them. Abel glared at her for a few seconds, before sloping away, leaving Theon wondering what his purpose had been? Had it been to reveal his identity to him? If so, what was the point in that move? What did the lady Melisandre stand to gain from it, and why had she had the wildling himself tell Theon? Why not someone else? Did Damon-Dance-For-Me know?

"I wonder how deep these crypts go? There have been thousands of years of dead Starks…"

Damon's voice echoed through the empty halls. He was right. There had been thousands of years of dead Starks. Theon hoped that they would not all come back to haunt them. He also hoped that they would not have to dive deeper into the crypts today. He had enjoyed enough of this darkness for one day. He wished to see Jeyne. He wished to ask her how she was.

Then the red woman stopped, right in front of the statue of Eddard Stark. The likeness was not perfect, but the Winterfell stone mason had died in King's Landing. There had been a struggle to find one who knew Eddard's face well enough.

"His bones are still missing from here. I sense it. They are on their way, and with them comes darkness and light. We must hope they arrive soon, for the man carrying them is the key to these crypts, and there is something hidden here that we must find."

The four of them all stared up at the dormant, stone eyes of Lord Stark. Theon shuddered as he did. He couldn't help but feel that those eyes were judging him for his crimes. For each and every one of them. For betraying Robb and taking Winterfell… For bowing to Ramsay and doing his will for so long. Lord Stark had raised him as his own. He had raised him better than how he had turned out.

"Was he your father, Theon?"

He turned, and he saw a ghostly figure stride towards him, past the statues that held the remains of generations of dead Starks. He recognised the voice of the man, but his face was bloated and puffy, and the sockets where his eyes should be were empty and dark holes, filled with wrath and revenge. A darkness that was pulling Theon in, but that he knew from which he would never be able to escape.

"For ten years I had you. Did I not teach you better? These Greenlander wolves took your brothers from us. They killed them. Now you bend the knee to them and bear their name? You did not take it. You did not pay the iron price. You are a disappointment, Theon, you always have and you always will be. To whichever father you claim to be your own."

He looked upon the ghastly face of Balon Greyjoy, his own father, which had been warped by the sea. The crabs had taken his eyes.

"You cannot be here. You're dead."

"Look around you, Theon. There is only death here. For what is dead can never die, but rises again, harder and stronger."

Balon raised his arms, and ghostly corporeal forms appeared from all of the statues, save for Eddard's. They slowly approached Theon, who fell back and cowered on the ground, all whilst his father laughed.

And then his eyes snapped open. He was laid in his bed, a woman's hand on his brow. He could feel the sweat. His eyes darted around the room. He wasn't imn the crypts. He was in his chambers. There were two woman here with him. He could see the red woman by the fire, staring into the flames, and Jeyne seated beside his bed, her hand to his brow. Their eyes met, and then she looked away.

"He is awake, lady Melisandre."

"That is good news."

The red woman swept across the stone floor of his chambers, the train of her dress trailing behind her. Theon had often worried how it stayed clean like that. There were many things like that to wonder about Melisandre of Asshai.

"Where am I? How did I get here?"

"You are in your chambers in Winterfell, Theon Greyjoy. You were carried here by Damon after you fell unconscious in the crypts."

"That- That actually happened?"

The red woman nodded, and then slyly looked at Jeyne, as if saying the word crypt might tip her off that they were up to something nefarious. The steward's girl was instead flinching at the mention of Damon's name. Theon had to admit that his own body wasn't too happy at the casual mention of Damon either.

Yet the man had proved his worth to not just the red woman but to Stannis, too. He had killed Roose Bolton, who had been the pretender Lord of Winterfell.

A thought then occurred to Theon. Almost all of the people in the red woman's inner circle had suffered at the hands of Ramsay Bolton. Was that why she trusted them? Because they all had the same shared trauma. If that was the case then why did she not trust Jeyne in the same way that she trusted him.

"Yes, Theon Greyjoy. Kit actually happened. We took a trip down to the crypts two days ago. No sooner had we reached the statue of Eddard Stark than you collapsed to the floor in a fit of screaming. I had Damon bring you here. He and Devan have been standing watch over you, but your friend never left your side."

Even now Theon could pick up a tone in the red woman's voice when she talked about Jeyne as his friend but not hers. She didn't trust her.

"Why did you take us down to the crypts?"

The red woman looked sideways at Jeyne. He felt like he had to intervene.

"She can be trusted. I grew up with her and made my escape with her. She helped me leave Ramsay. She helped me put Reek behind me and embrace Theon Greyjoy instead."

Melisandre acquiesced.

"Very well. I sense something deep and dark and dangerous in those crypts. There is someone or something buried there which shouldn't be. Something that pulls all the light and life from that place. It is deeper than I think anyone has been in centuries, and the darkness is nameless. It has been forgotten by history, and for good reason."

"You would have us looking for this thing? To tame it? To use it against what is coming from the north?"

She shook her head.

"No, Theon Greyjoy. This thing cannot be tamed. The truth is, I think it has been dead for thousands of years, I am merely picking up its presence and whatever was left behind from before. There is something else buried in those crypts. Something that will be needed if we wish to defeat the forces of the Great Other which amass beyond your Wall. In the darkest places there is often a light which shines forth to protect us. I sense that this is the case here. We must find this hidden light, and we must tame it."

Theon looked up at the ceiling of his chambers for a few seconds after the red woman had ceased speaking. Some would call her mad, and he knew many that did, in fact, but there was something strangely entrancing about what she said. He wanted to help in the fight against whatever was coming for them. He could not fight, not any longer, so maybe he could do this. Maybe this was his calling, and when it was done then he could finally find peace in this world. Peace for him and peace for Jeyne. Together.

"There was something else which happened in the crypt. Do you remember it?"

"Yes. Abel the singer. He claimed to be Mance Rayder, the King of the wildlings."

"And do you believe him?"

"I do not see what reason he would have to lie about such a thing. As far as I can tell there is more for him to lose, should the lie have entered the wrong ears."

The red woman smiled her usual thin smile. He still wasn't sure how much he could trust her, but she had looked after him this far, and had listened when he spoke up for Jeyne.

"It is true. The man that you knew as Abel has always been Mance Rayder. What do you intend to do with this information?"

"Nothing. His life is his own. I have judged enough men in my life, and committed enough crimes which have gone unpunished. I will not start judging other men for their crimes now. If you knew and Stannis does not, then I assume it is for his benefit."

Melisandre turned and walked back to the flames. She carried on speaking, but with her back to him.

"It is. Stannis' men hate the wildlings, whether Northern or southern. It is the one thing which unites them under a common cause. Mance is a useful tool, and he will prove useful again, but if the men outside this door suspected that Stannis knew Mance was still alive then he would face mutiny. Neither of us want that. I wanted to see whether you could be trusted."

So it had all been a test. Unfortunately for the red woman, he had collapsed before leaving the crypts, and had never had the chance to divulge the information to Stannis, which must be why she was asking him what he would have done now.

It was a high risk policy. Had he betrayed her then both Mance and her would likely have been burned alive by Stannis for treason. He did not look kindly on those people who betrayed his trust. Even if one of them was his most trusted counsellor.

"And you have now decided that I can be, otherwise you wouldn't be telling me all this. Why is that?"

"Because I need you. I tried to go down to the crypts whilst you were unconscious, but the doors would not let me pass. They require a Stark to be properly opened. They opened for you because of your relationship with Eddard Stark. I wanted to ask you to come with me again, in a few days time. We shall go."

Theon shook his head, and pulled himself up.

"We can go now. I am ready."

Down in those crypts was where the ghosts of his past lived. If going down there would help him confront them and defeat them. Maybe he could be free from all of this guilt and could finally move on with his life. Only if those ghosts allowed him to though. It was the choice of the dead whether to let him go or not.

The red woman supported him as they walked along the corridors of Winterfell. They stopped at the top of a spiral staircase which led down to the lower floors of the keep. They could both hear voices.

"The boy had to die, I tell you. If we want to control the North then we have to convince Stannis that one of those Northern Lords killed him, and that they can't be trusted. Then he will give Winterfell to one of us. To me. You understand, Peasebury?"

"Yes. Well… I mean… You already have a lordship, Godry. Why do you need this one. I have three sons-"

"I don't give two shits about your weak sons. Winterfell will be mine. I will take it by force if I have to."


	108. Asha IV

The sea broiled beneath the ship that carried Asha Greyjoy away from the wars of Westeros. She had fled Pyke with the few supporters that still followed her when she had heard that her uncle, Euron Crow's eye, was returning with the Iron Fleet at his back. She had held her ancestral home for little more than a few months, before losing it to that monster, as she had done before, at the Kingsmoot on Old Wyk.

They had taken three ships when they set sail, hugging the coastline, as they knew the Crow's eye would be further out to sea, and not flying the kraken of Greyjoy, or any other banners that might signify them as Ironborn. They had lost one of their ships on Fair Isle, trading it away for provisions. There had been little in the way of wealth to take away from Pyke. Most of her father's stores had disappeared. Probably plundered by men loyal to the Crow's Eye.

The crew from the traded ship had joined hers on her own, the Theon Greyjoy. She had uncle Dagmer, who was not her true uncle, but the descendant of a Greyjoy bastard born of a thrall, who commanded her men and barked orders. Few men chose to disobey him. There was also her cohort of Botleys. She had Harlon, Vickon, Lucimore, Sargon, and, of course, Tris. There had been other Botleys, but they had opted to take their chances staying behind on the Iron Islands. She couldn't blame them.

She was unsure what her intentions were. There was always a good living raiding and reaving from the Stepstones, where piracy was embraced, but she had heard tale of many pirate kings attempting to claim a crown, and she had supped enough on the wills and whims of kings. Mayhaps she could sail for the Basilisk Isles, although the fall of the slave trade had badly impacted the corsairs who dwelled there.

She looked to the east, and saw the other ship that she had under her control cutting through the waves. The ship was the Old Scythe, and was captained by Sigfryd Harlaw, the eldest living member of the house that controlled the island of Harlaw. She was grateful for his loyalty. Others had not been as quick to follow her.

Lord Wynch and Germund Botley had both supported Euron, and had both perished in the fight for Pyke. The two Lord Farwynd, Triston and Gylbert, had turned their backs on her, and she hadn't received ravens from the young Lord Blacktyde. These houses had professed their support for her, but when the time came they had pulled away. The Harlaws and the Botleys were the only houses that she could trust, though she now knew that too late.

Clayton Suggs had objected to their leaving the Islands, saying that she had made a deal with Stannis Baratheon and that she should see it honoured. Stannis had murdered her brother, though. She cared little for broken oaths towards him. Ser Clayton had objected a lot less with her axe buried deep in his throat.

Asha walked the length of the ship to the prow, and watched as her own command scythed through the waves, cutting a path south. She started to think of something that Tris had said to her once.

When they were at Deepwood Motte had had told Asha that she should head south and change. She shouldn't go for piracy, but to make her living as a merchant, with him. It was less of the adventure that she had known to this point, but she had grown tired of adventure the more that she experienced of it. It had been a lust for adventure that had seen her brother be taken prisoner and then killed. Maybe Tris had been right. Maybe it would be better to disappear.

"What thoughts cross your mind, Asha?"

She turned, and found Tris himself watching her. He was a handsome man, and his eyes were soft and caring, even after everything that he had been through. She had once had feelings for him, but there had been others. She often thought of Qarl the Maid, but she did not know where he was, or if he was even still alive. Tris was her here and now.

"Words that you spoke to me once. You told me to settle for peace and remove myself from these wars. Maybe you were right, Tris. Many people would still be alive if I had only listened to you then and not decried you as a fool."

Tris nodded humbly, and stepped forward so that he was alongside her.

"I know I spoke those words to you once, Asha, but I was wrong. I have been wrong a lot in my life. Euron Crow's Eye cannot be allowed to carry on ruling. He will destroy all the people that we have ever known. My brothers… Your nuncle Rodrik… You are the queen that the Ironborn deserve, Asha. I hate to see you like this."

Tris was right. She wasn't herself. She hadn't been for some time. Not since she had fled from Pyke. That hadn't been like her at all. Maybe she had grown wiser and less reckless, but she had felt something chilling inside her, almost as if a voice was telling her that she had to flee. It had felt as if death was already there for her, colder than any winter she had ever known.

The old Asha would have ignored those feelings and fought anyway, being willing to die with a dirk in one hand and an axe in the other. This had felt different though. Others had felt it too. The ominous winds of winter blowing towards them across the waves. It had been snowing on Pyke when they had left. It was cold here, but there was no snow on deck.

Her father had once told her of a winter so long and so cold that the seas in the North froze over, thick enough that they could be walked upon, and that below them floated the bodies of the countless dead that had fallen through the ice, their eyes watching and waiting for the chance to pull someone living down to a watery grave where they would never be free to join the Drowned God in his watery halls. She had never believed that story.

"You would have me turn our ships now and sail back? We would be slaughtered, Tris. Two ships against most of Euron's Iron Fleet. Maybe some will support us, but surely not many. Euron has-"

"I do not think that you should sail yourself into a slaughter, Asha."

Tris interrupted and moved over to her, so that they were stood closer together.

"You're too clever for that. There is an advantage to having only two ships, though. Slip into the Iron Islands and find those who support you. Then work against Euron. Seize what is yours by right, but do it the clever way."

Maybe Tris was right. She knew that there would be some that supported her. She could rely on her nuncle from Harlaw, and most of his vassals. The Blacktydes had no reason to love Euron. They would support her, and she would have the aid of any Botleys who managed to survive Euron's wrath.

There would always be those in the Iron Islands that supported her. She just had to harness them against her uncle. What Tris said was true. There was a way that she could live and have what was hers by right. She just needed to be clever about it.

"Five ships to starboard!"

She heard the loud and booming voice of Lucimore Botley, a few seconds before she saw him hit the deck, an axe buried firmly between his eyes. He was a hefty man, and the corpse fell on top of two Botley men, crushing one of them. She was lucky that the body didn't break through the deck.

Her eyes then looked up and spotted the same ships that Lucimore had seen. They were too close, close enough for someone with good aim to hit a target as large as Lucimore. The ships were all flying the golden kraken of Greyjoy. They must belong to her uncle. Had they followed them from the Iron Islands? That couldn't be. Why attack now and not earlier? Besides, they were advancing from the south. They must be some ships that Euron had left in the south.

"Defend the sides! Every man to a blade! Ready to be boarded!"

Those were the commands bellowed by Dagmer, who had already grabbed himself a double headed battle axe. Other men went for rusted swords and smaller axes. She saw one man wielding a dirk and nothing more.

Two of the ships had approached them on their side. Men started to jump onto their deck. She grabbed her axe, and tossed Tris his sword, and ran forward into the combat.

The first man that she met got the blade of her axe across his throat, the next she sliced into the right knee, and then down on the back of his neck. She looked up and saw Dagmer fending off three opponents that had come for him. Tris was standing almost back to back with his brother, Harlon. Two men were laid at the feet of each brother.

Tris had just skewered another, but Asha saw a large man coming for him. She threw her, axe, and it bedded deep in the chest of the attacking man. She reached down and picked up the sword of the man that she had just killed.

She disliked swords. They were too long and heavy. She much preferred a good axe in her hands, and a dirk hidden, just in case she needed it. Still, this sword would have to do. Tris had better survive so that her using her axe to save him had been for good reason.

Two more men came at her, but she cut them down easily enough. She had trained some with a sword, just in case she ever found herself needing to be able to use one. That had worked out well, it seemed. Another man came at her, and she swatted him down with a smack of the blade to his side, before then skewering him to the deck.

When she got up she saw that her men were fighting well, despite the fact that they had been heavily outnumbered. Bodies were starting to pile up on the deck. A couple of them had managed to gather around the door. She saw that Sargon Botley was amongst those, not allowing the death of his brother to faze him as he bellowed out battle commands.

She stepped forward to approach that group, but was interrupted when a thin man stepped in between her and the group. She recognised him as one of Victarion's men. Did that mean that her other uncle was here, too?

"So it is true what the Crow's Eye said. His little niece has come south to flee from his revenge. Well, I shall bring you to him alive, little girl. Nute the Barber has fought more battles than you have had dreams, and I shall not lose to a girl like you."

She remembered Nute now. He was a fine axe wielder, and a feared warrior throughout the Iron Islands. He hadn't been a captain when she had last seen him, and yet here he was. Had he betrayed Victarion for Euron? She had always thought him loyal to her uncle, but mayhaps it had been a different uncle that he had been loyal to.

She dodged out of the way of his first swing, and then his second, jumping backwards, towards the starboard side of the ship. Nute's ship must have been the one that was on the port side of the Theon. He was quick, but older than she was, and that slowed him down some. She ducked under his next attack, which had gone for neck, and swung her own strike down on the back of his knees. He jumped, and countered, but she rolled out of the way of his attack.

When she looked up she found him coming at her again, wild anger in his eyes. He was growing careless. It was too much for some men to be outdone by a girl. She knew that and she used it to her strengths. Nute was the grandson of some thrall or salt wife. He was the sort of man who did not deal with shame well. The sort of man who always aspired for better.

She got to her feet as he charged, and jumped backwards to avoid his first, wild strike, before attacking again, with more speed and more strength this time. Her axe found its mark, clipping the man's left cheek. He fell to his knees, his hands to his face. He was bleeding, but alive. Good. The man would make a valuable prisoner.

She turned her back, but that proved to be a mistake. The man was wounded but still very much willing to fight. He leapt up at her. She felt him moved and turned, swinging her axe back around in an arc as she did. It met his cheek, and cut straight through his mouth. His body fell to the floor, convulsing as he died slowly, his blood filling his mouth as he drowned in it.

She then fell backwards too, as yet another assailant came at her. It was a large man, with thick arms and long, brown hair, which she got in her face as he wrapped his arms around her. He slammed her against the side of the boat, and then dropped her to the deck. She looked up, and saw the impressive frame of Andrik the Unsmiling, the most brutal Ironborn warrior around. He must be another that now served the Crow's Eye.

She could take Nute the Barber in a fight because he was a small man with little physical strength, but Andrik was another matter. He was big and burly with more muscles than any man needed, and more in between his ears than people his size were want to have. She didn't have her axe, having dropped it when he grappled her, but even if she had then she doubted that one axe would make much of a difference. The man was a mountain.

He carried an axe even larger than the one that Victarion had once carried. He raised it over his head as he prepared to bring it down to strike. The blow would kill her for sure.

Just then, a roar came into her ears, and out of nowhere another large man ran into the frame of Andrik, sending him flying. It wasn't to the side, or down to the ground, but over the side of the ship. Too late she recognised the face of uncle Dagmer, as he fell off the side of the ship with him. The water below was cold. She ran to the side and looked over, but both men had already disappeared underwater, descending down to the Drowned God's watery halls.

She sobbed slightly as she picked up the axe she had dropped before. In total she cut down four more men as she fought herself over to where Sargon had mustered the remainder of her men. The attackers were still forcing themselves on them, even though both their captains were now dead. She saw that Tris had made it to the group, but there was no sign of Harlon.

"The Cleftjaw?"

She heard Sargon ask her, but she pushed past him and headed below decks. She heard Tris call her name after she had gone, but she didn't turn back. Not even for Tris.

She found her way down to the lowest level, and slumped down against the wall. Here she allowed the tears to run down her red face. They stained her cheeks, and she could taste their saltiness as they ran down into her mouth.

How many of her family did these wars need to take from her? First her father, then her brother, and now uncle Dagmer too. That wasn't even counting Victarion and Aeron, her actual uncles, or nuncle Rodrik, who may also be dead. Then there had been her mother and aunt, who they had found dead in Ten Towers. She was losing her family slowly, member by member.

"Asha? Asha? Asha, you need to get up. They need you up there. They need you to lead them. I need you."

She didn't need to look up to know that it was Tris that had followed her. She had expected him to come. She had once thought of him like a wounded puppy that followed her out of need, but now she realised that he was no puppy, and that he followed her out of loyalty and out of love. She looked up, and saw that his face was red too.

Of course. He had lost an uncle before the battle had even started. Like as not his brother was dead too. How could she be so selfish? Every men up there had lost family fighting for her, and yet here she was, cowering below deck like a broken little girl. She was so pitiful. She was so selfish.

And yet she couldn't compel herself to get up and return to the battle. She wasn't sure if it was guilt or despair, but she just couldn't do it. She felt his hand take hers.

"I know what it feels like Asha. To lose someone you love. Let me help you."

And she did. She let him take her hand and raise her to her feet. She stared into his eyes and then lowered her head.

"I'm-"

"Don't tell me that you're sorry, Asha. Tell me that you're Asha Greyjoy, the Queen of the Iron Islands and the Lady Reaper of Pyke. Tell me that you will go up there. We don't need to fight, we just need to show them that you're alive."

She closed her eyes, and then nodded, allowing him to lead her up the stairs and back to the door. The attackers had penned Sargon back against the door, and only ten or fifteen men had managed to stay with him. When Sargon saw her, he let out a roar of delight, and then yelled out the order to push back, and her men did. They cut down the enemy, and then their opposition started to retreat. Sargon led the charge after them, and Asha collapsed onto the stairs. Tris slumped down next to her.

"We won, Asha."

"Then why does it feel like I've been doing nothing but losing, Tris? I ran from Euron to keep my supporters alive and now they are just as dead as they would have been had I stayed."

"This goes beyond the people that you and I care about, Asha. This is about the people that we don't know, who will suffer under the rule of the Crow's Eye and what he rules for. We have to return."

Just then, Sargon came over. There was a grim smile on his face. How had he stayed so strong, even though he had seen his brother dead.

"Sad tidings, my Queen. We lost twenty men in the fighting, including the Cleftjaw, my brother, and my nephew. Plus, Lord Sigfryd's ship has been sunk. I have sent some men to fish out any survivors. Ten of the enemy have surrendered to us and decided to follow you instead of the Crow's Eye. I have ordered for one of them to report to us whatever they know of the Crow's Eyes plans after we have fished for any survivors from Sigfryd's crew."

It was Tris that responded, rising to his feet and bowing his head.

"You have my thanks, Uncle. When that is done ready all the dead to be buried at sea. We will send them down to the Drowned God's watery halls with honour."

"Even the enemy?"

Tris nodded.

"Yes, uncle. Even the enemy. They are still Ironborn, after all."

"Aye. As you say, Lord Botley. And may I say that you fought well. You both did."

Sargon left them then, and Asha sat besides Tris for a few more minutes. When she rose, she found men huddled around on the deck. Some of them were soaking wet. Those were the ones who had been fished out of the sea, she presumed.

When she reached the prow of the ship she turned, and found the eyes of all of them trained on her. Tris stepped forward and stood by her side. She spotted the large frame of Sargon Botley standing out amongst the crowd.

"We have all fought well today. We have defeated the Crow's Eye, even if it was a small victory. We will defeat him again, and again, and again. We will wrest control of the Iron Islands from him. Not for me. Not for Stannis Baratheon. For you. We will return home for you. We will take what is ours, not mine. Those are your homes and your families. Let's go save them."


	109. The Wolf Bride

The darkness surrounded her, but that was the way that she liked it. The darkness felt like home. It wasn't the courtyard of W9interfell, nor the large great hall, but it reminded her of the dark and scary crypts, in which she had used to play from time to time. She was not No-One. She was Arya Stark, and she was allowed these memories.

The only light down here was the single candle that she had brought down with her, and placed on a chair between her and the cell which she was watching. It lit up her face and her legs, and her hands, which she held together on her lap. It also lit up the scruffy features of the man that she was now looking at.

Time had not treated Petyr Baelish at all well. Gone were the days of the knowledgable master of coin, who gained his power from not just his wealth, but also his mystique and his enigma. He had looked smart and devious before. Now he looked nothing short of mad. He had always been thin and slight, but now he was malnourished and too pale to be considered healthy. He had been in the dark too long.

"Tell me again, Lord Baelish. How did he die?"

"He died painfully, Lady Stark. I made sure to that. He died choking and in pain, as punishment for what he did to your father, sister, brother and mother. I killed Joffrey Baratheon."

A smug smile of satisfaction crossed Arya's face. She had often dreamed of killing Joffrey herself, for everything that he had done, and what he had caused, but something about this was better. She could imagine the suffering. She could imagine what he had looked like, crawling on the floor, his mother weeping above him. Maybe imagination was indeed better than the reality.

"Who did the deed?"

"Lady Olenna Tyrell… She slipped the poison into his goblet. Her grand-daughter was in on the scheme, so was your sister. I organised the plan. Please, Lady Stark, I have never not been loyal to your family. I supported your father and I saved your sister. It was Lord Royce that chased her away- "

"You saved Sansa? How?"

She had been allowed access to see Petyr Baelish today, as it was the day she was due to wed her cousin, Robert Arryn, and then they would be sent north together, so that she could retake Winterfell, with the Royce banner flying above it, where the crowned stag of Baratheon had used to fly.

He had always been a man who knew a lot, and she was enjoying using him to find out exactly what had happened in Westeros whilst she had been gone. She had asked him about Robb, but he had confirmed to her that no Starks had survived the wedding at the Twins. Save for her, of course. Apparently Robb's widow was still alive, however.

"I saw what Joffrey Baratheon did to her, what he made her do. I killed him for her, to save her from that monster. I smuggled her out of the city, and then when Lord Royce came I smuggled her out of the Vale and sent her to the safety of Riverrun. I am the lealest supporter that the Starks will ever find."

"And yet it is said that my Uncle Brandon left you scarred for life, for you were obsessed with my mother. Did you not resent my family more than you loved it? Did you not resent my father?"

"I- I loved your mother. Throughout my life there was nobody that could compare to her. She was perfection made flesh. Your father… I resented him at first, yes. Then I met him and saw that he was an honest man, a trait that I value. He was good for her. I could see that and I respected that."

The man was a liar. She knew that. She knew the reputation of Littlefinger Baelish. He was a plotter and a schemer and a liar. He did not value honesty, and the way that he had claimed that he did made her suspect he was lying with the other things that he said too. Still, had this man ever truly loved her mother? She hadn't known him very long, but she felt that there was little room for love in the heart of Petyr Baelish, and most of that room was spent on him loving himself.

"It was Janos Slynt that betrayed him. He was a treacherous man. Obsessed with coin, whether it was gained legally or illegally. He is dead, though. He was executed by your bastard brother at the Wall."

So, Jon had seen fit to remove one of their father's betrayers from his connection with the mortal world. She and Jon had always shared a bond. Of all their father's children it had been he alone that had bore the face and hair of a Stark, along with her. He had always felt like an outsider at Winterfell, just as she had. She had loved him more than any of her other siblings, and he had given her Needle, as a way for her to remember him. As if she could ever forget the brother that she had loved so much, and felt so deeply for.

"I never mentioned anything about anyone betraying my father, Lord Baelish. Is there something that you know that I do not."

She could see the imprisoned man shift uncomfortably in his cell. She enjoyed watching him squirm, though it was clear to her that she touched a nerve, and that there was something that he was trying to keep secret. Had he betrayed her father in some way? Maybe because he resented how he had never won the heart of her mother? Catelyn Tully had been stolen from him by not one but two Starks. That must have hurt a young Petyr Baelish. Did he still carry that pain, even now?

"Have you ever visited Winterfell, Lord Baelish?"

"I have never, Lady Stark. The North is too cold for a man of my complexion and stomach, I am afraid. The Vale, Riverlands and Crownlands suit me fine."

"My mother was from the Riverlands, and yet she loved the North. She loved its beauty and its people. She loved the warm springs of Winterfell especially."

"That is strange. I heard that your mother always hated the North. She hated the cold and the rugged landscape. It was nothing like her beloved Riverrun, or the rolling lands that her father ruled over. She missed her true home."

Baelish cocked his head slightly, and Arya could see a thin smile appearing on his pale face. Did he think that he'd won?

"She loved the North enough to have five children born of it. How many children do you have, Lord Baelish?"

"I had a bastard daughter once, but she left me. I had a son once too, but he abandoned me too. Love is not something that comes easily with me, Lady Stark, and yet I truly did love your mother."

"Enough to betray my father and turn him over to Joffrey's justice?"

Silence followed that question, and in that silence Arya knew the truth. Baelish had betrayed her father, and in doing so had sentenced him to die, along with all the others who had perished in King's Landing. He had held no loyalty to the name Stark, but only to his vengeful ideals and his lust for her mother and for revenge. Here he was, sat in front of her. She could kill him if she wanted, but the time wasn't yet right.

"Do you want me to tell you what I did to Lothar Frey, Lord Baelish? He betrayed my family and I butchered him slowly, like he was a cow, or a pig, with him whimpering for mercy all the time I was doing it. I was mercy once, but I am not anymore. I am Arya Stark of Winterfell. I am justice and judgement. Soon enough I am going to judge you as I did him, and then there will be no witty retorts or thin smiles. Then there will only be me, you, and a very, very sharp knife."

She didn't look for what expression that promise made on the face of Petyr Baelish. Instead she blew at the candle, and then turned in the darkness, walking back to the steps that led from the dark jail cells to the light of the courtyard of Runestone. Waiting for her was Jon Redfort, who Yohn Royce had named as the commander of her personal guard. He commanded Marlon Sunderland and Marwyn Belmore, but neither of them were present.

The attitude around Runestone had been different for the last few days. It was busy, and there were few people who were not required to perform duties for the wedding. She was to marry Robert Arryn, her cousin on her mother's side, today. Not long after she would be sent north, to take Winterfell, her home, in the name of House Royce.

Jon was one of the few men who was not required to put up banners or set out chairs, or collect guests from the castles and keeps local to Runestone. Belmore had been sent as part of the retinue to collect Lord Redfort, and Sunderland had gone to Runestone. Both would return with their respective nobles today.

Her protective knight was slouched against the wall that stood next to the entrance to the cells. He stood up straight when he saw her emerge from the dark shadows. He was dressed in white and red, with a red cloak behind him. He moved forward as she passed him.

"You have been summoned, my Lady."

"I don't care."

She stormed through the courtyard and over to the main keep of the castle. She did not like the way that these Vale lords felt that they could order her about. She was a Stark of Winterfell. They presented her to their daughters and their wives, hoping that they would be able to become friends with her, so that they may be remembered when she became the Lady of Winterfell.

Jon quickened his pace so as to keep up with her. He was a large man, and yet he didn't use any of his physique to block her off.

"Lady Hunter would like to talk to you about your dress for the wedding, my Lady, and Lady Myranda wishes to know who you would have sit with you for the feast after."

"Tell her that I would like for Jon Snow and Syrio Forel to sit with me, Ser Jon, and see how she reacts. Then you can return to me."

Jon stopped and grabbed for her hand. She turned.

"My lady-"

"Were you not commanded to do as I asked by Yohn Royce himself, Ser? I have told you what to do, now leave me be. I wish to be alone."

The knight nodded, and then sloped away. Arya finished her journey back into the keep, and then up some spiral staircases, to where her chambers had been located. She opened the door, and to her chagrin found a man stood inside, waiting for her.

"I have been expecting you, Lady stark. I had thought that you would be here, with Lady Hunter or my cousin Myranda."

"I was not. Why are you here, Andar?"

She walked over to the basin in the corner of the room. It was filled with cool water, and she dipped her hands in it to clean them. She liked the feel of the water against her skin. It was soothing. She then turned to Andar Royce.

"I came to see how you were, my Lady."

"Do not lie to me, Andar. You care less for my feelings than I care for yours. You either came to taunt me about this marriage or look for me to support some plot of yours. Which is it?"

The knight let out a slight chuckle, though it did not feel like he was actually laughing. He wiped his face with the back of his hand, and then looked at her.

"You are correct, my Lady. I came to tell you that I intend to come north with you and Sweetrobin. My father has been debating which of his men should lead his armies in the North. I have persuaded him that it should be me."

"That is ill news. I did not think you to be much of a warrior."

That barb clearly frustrated the Royce heir. She knew that he was aware of how people spoke of him. He was untested and inexperienced.

"We shall see how well you speak when you are in my bed, my cock buried deep inside you. Lady of Winterfell? More like the wolf whore. I shall take you and put a Royce heir in your belly."

"Are you simple, Ser? It is Robert Arryn that is to wed and bed me, when he is of age. You must be forgetting your father's own plots and plans."

Andar lunger forward and pulled her close to him. His right hand roamed down to her arse, and he breathed heavily as he squeezed it. He bit his lip, and she could feel his cock stiffen in his breeches. She didn't look. Her eyes didn't leave his.

"Are you going to rape me on my wedding day, Ser? How would your father respond to that news?"

He didn't stop holding her, and Arya moved her hand to his crotch. She ran it across his length. It didn't take much time. He wasn't very long, even when hard. Andar growled, and pulled away.

"You tease me, wolf bitch. I know that you crave me, and yet you play these games and pretend otherwise."

"There is no pretending involved, Ser. I can assure you. I despise you. I just know the game."

Andar grunted slightly, and went to the door. He turned to her before he left, a grim smile on his face.

"Enjoy your nuptials, Lady Stark. Since your husband is too young, it may well end up being me that beds you this evening. Provided I've had enough drink that I can pretend you're as pretty as your sister."

And then Andar left her. Maybe she should feel offended by his barb, but she was use to the Royce heir. He was a vile sort. He reminded her slightly of Joffrey, but better with a sword, and with a bit more maturity to his sadism. Despite this, there was a smile on her face.

She looked down at the small knife that Andar kept on his person at all times. She had taken it when he had come close to her. She slipped into the fold of her dress that ran past her waist, before putting on the cloak that bore the wolf sigil of her house, of her home.

She had not been at Runestone long, but it had been better for Arya than she wanted to let on. Some of the people here were kind. Jon Redfort wasn't a bad sort, and the sadism in Andar Royce was not present in his father, who was a kind man that looked after her well enough. With Daenerys Targaryen she had kept in contact with her dark side, but here she felt more free from that part of herself. There was just one person that made her return to that way.

She had insisted that Raymund Frey not be present for her wedding to Robert Arryn, and so Yohn had sent him away, to help settle some dispute in Gulltown between the two branches of House Shett. Yohn bemoaned the Shetts constantly, claiming that they were always quarrelling.

She left her room behind, and headed down towards the Runestone sept.

Stepping inside, she found the room already quite full, mostly with noblemen and women that had come to see her marriage. There were a few guards but not that many. She found Yohn Royce was waiting for her at the door.

"Lord Eddard was a fine man, my Lady, and I am sorry that he could not be here to see this day. He would assure you of how beautiful you look, and how good a bride you will be. It would be my honour to guide you to your husband."

She was actually glad that it was Yohn doing this, and not Jon Redfort, which would have been embarrassing, or Andar, which would have been degrading. She took Yohn's arm, and he started walking her towards where she could see little Robert Arryn was stood, with Strong Sam Stone not far behind him, and a Septon stood on the dais.

She hadn't really had much opportunity to meet her cousin, who was now set to be her husband. He was short and weedy, but the move away from the Eyrie was apparently doing wonders for his health. They had met briefly once, but the conversation hadn't lasted long, and then Robert had been whisked away to a swordfighting lesson.

She took her place next to him, and Yohn drifted away, down to join his son amongst the Royce contingent. She looked down, and saw Myranda Royce and her father seated at the front, too. Lady Hunter was sat with her husband just behind them. Jon Redfort was sat next to Nestor Royce. She noticed that he had a sword hanging at his side. Were they expecting some sort of attack on her safety.

Arya turned and looked up at the Septon who was officiating. She had met a Septon in the Riverlands once, whose name had been Utt. He had been a vile man that had raped little boys and then killed them afterwards. This man did not look like him. He had greying whiskers and sweet, kind eyes. She didn't trust him. Men who look kind always had some sort of secret to hide.

She looked back at Robert Arryn. The boy looked bored. Arya wasn't the Stark girl that he wanted, she knew that. Did he not realise that she didn't want him? He wasn't Gendry. It was he that she had been dreaming of the last few nights, wondering whether he was still alive, somewhere in the Riverlands with the rest of the Brotherhood without Banners, who had stolen him from her.

She thought also of Sandor Clegane, though not in the same way. She had never had any feelings like that for the Hound. She had never really had those feelings for Gendry, not until the last few months. That was strange, because she had not seen him in months.

The ceremony didn't take long, and soon she found the sky blue and white cloak of House Arryn draped around her shoulders, replacing the Stark one which had gone. She stepped down, her hand being held by the little, clammy one of Robert Arryn. Yohn Royce was the first man who came forward to congratulate them, and then some of the others, most of whom she didn't know.

She was surrounded by strangers. That was what she knew.

"You should enjoy all this whilst you can, Lady Stark."

Yohn Royce sounded quite jolly as he spoke. He was in a good mood, and there was a beaming smile on his weathered face.

"You will be heading north with Lord Arryn and my son tomorrow. Jon Redfort will be going with you, too, and Sam Stone. You ride for Gulltown, and will be getting a ship north to somewhere near Karhold. From then you will head to Winterfell, and deliver the North to us. Soon you will be home!"

Tomorrow? She had expected to have longer here. She hadn't expected Yohn Royce's forces to marshal so quickly. She hadn't expected him to already have the travelling plans already in place.

She found herself running through the crowds, pushing people out of the way. She nipped past Jon Redfort, and past two Royce guards who were stood at the door, shouldering the Arryn cloak to the floor as she did. She was outside now, and felt the touch of the winter wind on her cheeks, but she didn't stop to savour it. Instead she ran, down towards the entrance to the cells, down into the darkness where Petyr Baelish was being held.

She didn't bother with a candle, and instead just ran down into the dark, towards where she knew the cell was. She could feel the cold bars to the cells underneath her touch. She could hear the sound of Lord Littlefinger sleeping.

She grasped the knife, and held it behind her back. Her hands were slightly sweaty from the anticipation. She was going to get some small justice for her father.

"Awake, Lord Baelish. We do not have long."

A few seconds past, and she picked up no change in the sounds coming from the cell. Then there was silence. Then the voice that she was expecting.

"Lady Stark, is that you? Why are you here?"

"Why do you think I'm here, Lord Baelish?"

She could hear the man rise from where he had been slumped, and step closer to the bars of his cell. His step was light. She grasped the hilt of the knife with more strength, slipping it silently out from it's hiding place. Lord Baelish wouldn't know it was there, as there was no light to flicker on the steel.

"You wish to talk further about my support for your father and brother? I have always been a friend to House Stark, my Lady-"

"You're a liar, Lord Baelish. I have played the game of faces with the Faceless Men. I have won the game of faces. I know a lie, and you are a liar."

"I-"

Baelish was cut off by the sound of the knife penetrating his stomach. She drove it in and then pulled it out, before driving to it in again, and again, and again. Lord Baelish fell to his knees, mumbling and moaning. No doubt he was feeling the wounds in his chest. Feeling the slick blood underneath his fingers. She knelt down, and stabbed him twice more.

By the time that she heard the door open and light filtered in she was covered in the traitors blood. Arya looked up at the shocked faces of Yohn, Andar and Jon, her hair a mess and her hands wet with blood. She smiled.

"I'm ready to go, Lord Royce."


	110. The Wildling Lord

The final throes of their lovemaking was as vigorous and passionate as it always was. He was buried deep inside her when the feel of her tight around his member caused him to climax within her. He then pulled out, and rolled onto his back, panting. Her hands moved to nimbly onto his chest, playing with the hair that she found there, as she rolled onto her side and looked at him. Her face was wet from sweat. They had been going at it nearly an hour.

"So, my love, how do I compare to this bear that you so famously pleasured?"

"You're less hairy."

Tormund laughed at his own joke, and a smile cracked onto the pale yet beautiful face of Alys Karstark. She was a proper woman, who would not have been out of place amongst the freefolk.

Instead she had been raised by some southern kneelers, who had kept her confined to this castle, where she would have been safe from being stolen by any proper men. Instead she had been promised off to any man that could kill someone called Jaime Lannister. Tormund vaguely remembered the name, but he wasn't sure where had heard it.

"You know what I meant, Tormund. Am I too tight for you? Are my breasts too small? You never play with them, and neither does Sigorn-"

"Aye, your breasts are smaller than I am used to. I cannot speak for Sigorn, but I still love them. Were I to have my way then you would never be clothed. This is not my castle, though."

Alys sighed, and traced circles on his chest, slightly above where his member laid.

"No, the castle is my husbands. Why is it that whenever we are together you always skirt around the subject? I was lead to believe that adultery was common in your culture. You are married too, are you not?"

"I was. My wife didn't make it through the winter. The cold took her. I am not scared of your husband, Alys, but I do not wish for him to throw away his life fighting me for you when I know that I already have you. He is a Thenn, and Thenns are proud. He would not sit back and allow us to continue this, and I don't wish for it to stop."

She giggled slightly, and pressed her lips to his for just a few seconds. When she moved away, he found himself moving his lips up after hers, but she was too fast.

"Then we had better use this time whilst we can. My husband is only gone for a week. When he returns he will take me again, and I will be thinking of you, my love."

He rolled them over, so he was above her. He moved his mouth to her breasts, nipping at the nipples and tugging them with his teeth. She moaned and groaned at that, and arched her back slightly. His member was hard again now, and throbbing slightly. He speared her with it, plunging it deep inside her in one thrust, skewering her upon it. Then, with all the force he could muster, he pounded in and out of her, fucking her until her cunt was raw and her moans had changed to whimpers.

Only then did he release himself inside her.

Once again, he rolled onto his back. This time she did not get up to talk. Instead she lay beside him, panting and whimpering. He knew that it was in a good way though, and so he rose up from the bed and walked over to the roaring fire. There was a jug of water there. He poured himself a goblet, and then seated himself in front of the jumping flames. Alys would join him soon enough, he knew. When she had recovered.

The winters here weren't as cold as the one that he had endured beyond the wall. Karhold had a ready supply of grain, and they were surrounded by woods which were full of game. That was where Sigorn had gone. He was hunting with a few of the other free folk chiefs that had come south with them.

Still, he welcomed the fires which warmed him when it was cold. It had felt colder than usual recently. Winter had come and with it came frosts and cloud, and heavy snow, which blocked off many of the roads and pathways. Sigorn had taken a few Karstark men that knew the forests, but Tormund still doubted that they would be back on time.

Sigorn had left him behind to look after Alys, but Toregg had gone with him, and Dryn too. Longspear Ryk was with them as well. Arthor Karstark, Alys' cousin whom she called uncle, had been left behind to look after the castle and keep the Karstark people loyal. Sigorn still didn't trust them, and that sometimes showed. There was some tension between the free folk men and the Karstark men.

There had been another Arthor Karstark, too. He had come from Stannis Baratheon, who held Winterfell. He hadn't been alone. With him had come Mance Rayder, who had once been King Beyond The Wall, and who Tormund had once thought dead. Val, who the southerners called a princess, had told him that Mance was, in fact, alive, and now Tormund knew that to be true, and knew exactly where mance was, should he need him.

He had lost Val, though. He wasn't entirely sure when, or where she had disappeared to, but he hadn't been able to find her. Somehow he had this feeling that he was never going to see her again. He wasn't sure what that feeling was, but he found it peculiarly chilling.

"Are you lost deep in thought, my love?"

He turned his head, and saw that Alys had taken their chair opposite him. They were both still naked, and she sat with her legs spread. He turned back and stared into the flames.

"I was just thinking of your husband. I hope he returns safely. These snows… They are different. Something is coming."

There was a silence then, and then Alys jumped at him, angrily straddling his lap.

"I am sat there like this, naked and dripping with sweat and your seed, and yet you're thinking of my husband? Is my lovemaking so bad that you desire to think of other men during and after?"

Lovemaking. That was such a southern word for what it was that they had just done. It didn't capture any of the animality behind stealing a woman you liked and fucking her cunt raw. That was what he did. He did not make love. He made his lovers scream. Screammaking should be what they called it when Tormund was involved.

"It is not you or your body that causes me to think of him. Just this winter, which grows colder by the day. Even beyond the wall I didn't know much like this. Let us hope that your Wall stands firm against the cold winds blowing from further north than even my home."

Alys raised herself from his lap and walked over to the mantle, swaying her hips as she did. She was completely naked.

"Tell me the stories again, Tormund. Tell me about the Children and their queer ways."

The girl loved to hear all his tales from beyond the wall. She was an adventurous one, and yet she had spent her whole life cooped up in this castle. In many ways she lived those adventures through the stories that he would tell her. His stories about the children were her favourite.

"Very well. As a wee ball I grew up in my father's hall. He was a tough one, with a beard as long as his member, and arms as thick as a tree trunk. Our home was in the middle of a wood, where my father hunted and fished in the nearby lake. Me and my brother, we hunted with our father, when we were old enough, and one day we went out alone. We stumbled on a small entrance in the side of a hill. After going inside we found a hallway, which led to a large room."

Tormund sighed. He missed his brother. He had been killed in a hunting accident when still young. He had been taken too soon.

"The walls were covered in the white roots of the weirwoods, and entwined in them were skeletal bodies, seated on thrones made up of roots. Some of them had been sat there for centuries. My brother went to touch one, and then we heard the singing. We peaked into the next room, and there were these little creatures, all holding hands and humming tunes under their breath. They were each humming quietly, and yet together the sound was beautiful. A weak individual but a strong collective. That's what my brother said. He was always the smart one. I was the looker."

Alys turned to him and smiled. She always did that when he told her about the singing. It was a sad smile, but a deep one, as if the thought was reminding her of something sad that she couldn't quite remember.

"You've told me this story so many times that I dreamt I was there last night, when I was wrapped in your arms. I could hear the song and see the cavern."

"Aye. I've been hearing their song too. It is beautiful but dangerous, the song of the Children of the Forest. When it is sung then the coldest winters come, and yet they weave the beauty into it. Dark times are ahead, Alys."

Just then a noise came from outside the room. It was a shrieking, wailing noise, like the sound of something dying. Alys flinched when she heard it, and rested her arm against the wall. Tormund rose from his chair and instantly went for his axe, which was stood next to the door. He opened it, to see what lay on the other side.

There was nothing. Merely an empty corridor.

He turned back to his lover, who was stood in front of the fire, as naked as the day she was born, and was about to laugh, when a large crash echoed around the room. The floor fell away underneath Alys, and many hands grasped up from below and pulled her down, screaming and calling. He fell backwards, only able to watch it happen.

And then Alys was gone. The hands stopped, and a greater chill set upon the room. Tormund rose to his feet, and turned around, his axe in hand. There was now someone stood in the corridor. A lithe man dressed all in black, with a long face and matted dark hair. The figure took some steps forward. Tormund readied his axe.

"Are you coming for me, Crow? We can dance if you want, but I have killed more of your kind than you ever have of mine."

"As tall a story as ever, Giantsbane. And as untrue as ever. For at the hands of me and my kind the Free Folk have been reduced to nothing. We destroyed the Wall. We ravaged the Gift. We destroyed Last Hearth and I watched it burn. This is the last bastion of your people, and already it falls. You shall fall with it."

The voice was a familiar one to Tormund. It was impossible, though. Jon Snow was dead. He had been murdered by Bowen Marsh, one of his crow brothers. How could he be here, talking. How was this? Had he returned from the dead, or was this some ghostly apparition here to haunt him?

"You cannot be King Crow. He died. Be gone foul spirit."

"I am no crow, Tall-Talker. I am Jon Snow, the Bastard of Winterfell. I am Jon Snow, the Reborn, the Chosen, the Final Son. That is what my masters call me. They were once thirteen. Now they are ten. I have seen the hearts of men and I know the darkness which lays there."

Tormund spat on the ground. He realised that this had to be Jon Snow. There was something different about him though. Something that wasn't the same as when some of the others were transformed from being dead into being, well, whatever they had become.

"You always did talk too much, bastard."

He charged at the unarmed man, but suddenly Jon was carrying a sword. It had a wolf's head pommel. It was the same blade that he had used to carry in life. He swung it quickly, to counter Tormund's ferocious attack.

They clashed steel a few more times. Tormund was the stronger of the two, but Jon was quicker. He dodged an attack, and then struck his blade straight through Tormund's axe. The weapon split in half, and clattered to the floor. Tormund dropped to a knee. Jon walked slowly over towards him.

"Dragonsteel they call it. They fear my blade more than anything. They've seen its like before."

"And who are they, boy? The dead? The Snarks?"

"The Others, Tormund."

He had known what the bastard's answer was going to be, but the way that he said their name still sent shivers down Tormund's spine. The legendary creatures of ice that had brought with them the long night. The physical form of the winds of winter. When they blew south then all would fall before them, as had happened last time.

"They are the sons of the Night King, the thirteenth Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. They answer the call of their father. They will right the wrongs of the past and avenge the dead."

"And you serve them? Like a woman services a man's member? I always thought you were too pretty to be a proper man. What I see now just confirms that. She would be ashamed of you, Lord Crow. Ygritte-"

"Don't say her name!"

Jon raised his voice, and Tormund could see a fire burning in his dark eyes. Maybe the boy wasn't lost just yet. He was still fighting for what he truly loved, at the very least.

"Ygritte knew what I was before. She never knew the truth about me. She didn't know the truth about my mother or my father. He raped her. He swore an oath to celibacy and he raped her to death. The man who claimed to be my father lied to me my whole life. He was a liar. My whole life was a lie!"

"And you think that doing this is how to deal with it? Fuck you, Jon Snow. I spent my whole life north of your fucking Wall, barely living through the cold. You got your fucking castle, with its warm water and roasting fires. You would destroy all my people just because the fact you had all that was built on a lie?"

"Don't lecture me!"

Jon took a step forward and brandished his sword. The blade was special, Tormund remembered, though he was not sure why. It was Valyrian Steel, but he wasn't sure what that meant. Lord Snow had always called the blade Longclaw.

"I fought for your people, Tormund. I died for them. Did they protect me? Were they there? Did they fight for me, Tormund? My brothers killed me. They turned on me. I could never trust my brothers, any of them. I couldn't even trust my own father."

"You want to know who my father was? He was a beater. He beat my mother to death, and two of my brothers. It made me strong, and when I was old enough I fought back. I removed his hand and kicked him out of my village. We found him frozen in the snow a few days later. I was ten and three years at the time. What were you doing then, Lord Snow? Being mentored by your father and your master-at-arms?"

Jon was nearly shaking with anger by the time Tormund had finished speaking. Tormund had never seen the boy like this when he had been properly alive. He had always been calm and detached, but capable of great passion, such as he had been with Ygritte. He wouldn't have been able to impress Mance Rayder to the point that he had if he was foolish, bitter and angry all the times. This new Jon was different from the one that had arrived at the Free Folk camp.

"Rise yourself, Tormund. Today we fight. One of us will die, and I am already dead."

Tormund found himself doing what the crow commanded. He wasn't sure if he wanted to. Lord Snow had never been a supremely talented fighter. He was capable, aye, but there had been countless better fighters in the Free Folk camp. Even the Lord of Bones would have been able to best the crow.

But there was something different now. The boy had always lacked a ruthless streak, but now he was angry and bitter. The coldness in those eyes served as a thin veil to hide that rage. They might be ice cold, but there was a fire underneath.

He swung his axe at the boy, trying to catch him by surprise, but a part of him expected Jon to be quick enough to parry, or even have the reflexes to dodge the attack, but he didn't. He allowed the blade to strike his cloak, but there was no penetration. Instead the blade sung, as if it was striking steel, but there was more to it. There was a sad song, and then a screech, and then the blade shattered into a thousand pieces.

Tormund dropped the wooden handle of the axe as shards of steel embedded themselves into his hand. The pain shot up his arm, and he made to drop to the floor. He didn't however, as Jon grabbed him by the arm, pushing those shards further into his flesh. It wasn't just that, however.

The boy's pale skin was as cold as ice. Had he not been expecting that? Had he been expecting for the boy to be as warm blooded as he had been in life? He had said it himself. He was already dead.

"That was poor, Tormund. I expected better."

The boy through him down to the floor, and against the wall. He slumped back, and looked up at Jon as he walked closer and closer to him, his sword drawn.

"All those stories. The fucker of bears. The Lord of Ruddy Hall. The Horn Blower. That is why they sent me after you. They feared you would blow the horn, but you never will. You never would have. You turned out to just be a liar, just like everyone else that I knew in my life."

"I am no liar, Lord Crow."

Jon smirked slightly. It looked out of place on his face, and the boy clearly realised that, as the smirk was soon gone. Then he was snarling, with his teeth bared, and his eyes were closed, and his head was cocked to one side. It was almost as if the boy was in pain. Maybe he was starting to feel something from the axe contact.

"No! No! I can do it! He doesn't have to! He doesn't! No! No! I- I will. If it has to be done then I will do it. Yes, Lord Bloodraven. It will be done."

When the boy first opened his eyes, Tormund noted that the boy's eyes had reverted back to the colour that they had been when he was alive, but then he blinked and they were back to being ice cold blue.

"You have been sentenced to die, Tormund. I have been sentenced to take your head. Do you have any last words?"

Tormund looked over to where the hole where Alys had been pulled down through the hole. She was gone. There was no doubt about that. There was no saving her. The dead had pulled her down with them. He then looked back over to Jon.

"Last words? Do your duty, Jon Snow. You're angry at your father for breaking his oaths. Remember that. Don't become him. Do your duty. Protect your people. Do what I could not."

He closed his eyes and bent his head for the blade. There was no more words from Jon Snow. He did not say a goodbye, before the blade cut through his neck. He heard the sound of the blade coming through the air. He heard the contact on his own neck, though he didn't feel it as much as he thought he would.

And then he heard nothing.


	111. Patrek X

Patrek rode up towards the castle of Stone Hedge on the back of his black mare. He had borrowed the horse from Lord Blackwood, who rode alongside him. Behind them came Tytos' sons, Hoster and Edmund. They were joined by twenty swift riders, mixed between men of Blackwood and Mallister. Patrek had selected the men himself. Each man was a veteran of at least three battles, and a number had served as freeriders under the Blackfish for Robb Stark, the Young Wolf.

Stone Hedge would have been a fairly modest castle, had it not belonged to the Brackens, who had called for ornate carvings to be included on the towers and the keep itself. It was surrounded by one relatively thin wall. The carvings were mostly in the shape of horse heads, with most of those being of the horse braying. That was very symbolic of the Brackens. They were always braying of their family's history and achievements. Patrek had remembered there being more Bracken banners when he had been last here, but he supposed that Alyn Blackwood may have removed them.

Stood beneath the gates of the castle was the waiting party. It was a small group, with some soldiers at the back, but they were few, and then a collection of girls, who must be the daughters of Lord Jonos. At the centre was a boy of five and ten years. He was dressed in finery of black and red. Patrek assumed that he was Alyn Blackwood.

Patrek saw Tytos urge on his own horse when he saw his son, and so he did too. It did not take them long to arrive at the gates of the castle. Tytos had already dismounted by the time Patrek got his horse to a halt, and was embracing Alyn. Patrek dismounted too, and then went to the eldest looking girl, who he assumed was Barbara Bracken, Jonos' firstborn daughter.

"Lady Barbara? I am sorry for your loss."

The woman nodded daintily. She was tall and elegant, if not beautiful. Her hair was long and brown, and her skin pale. Patrek thought that she didn't look well.

"Your condolences are accepted, Ser Patrek. As was your raven delivering the news. I am glad that we heard from someone that our father thought so highly of."

If Jonos Bracken had thought highly of Patrek then that was news to him. The man had never made it obvious, and indeed Patrek had often thought that he was disliked by the Bracken lord. He had certainly always come across as if he thought that Patrek was merely a piece in his game. Still, if Jonos had spoken about him to his daughters then he must have thought something. Maybe Barbara was just being polite. That was also a possibility.

"May I introduce my sisters? This is Jayne, and those are Catelyn, Bess, and Alysanne."

Barbara and Jayne were the only adult daughters of Lord Bracken. Catelyn was no older than ten and two years, and the two other Brackens were children, with Alysanne being five or six. Jayne was prettier than the eldest sister. She still had the brown hair and pale complexion, but also a small nose, and brown, doe eyes.

"And this is Ser Hugo Vypren. He is my sworn shield. He was chosen personally by my father."

The man that stepped forward was large, with squinted eyes, and fierce, red hair, with red scruff and unshaved stubble around his chin and cheeks. His nose was large, but not bulbous or veiny. He had a sword strapped to his waist, and was dressed in chainmail. He looked like a capable fighter, though Patrek had not heard of him before. He must have been a distant cousin of the Vypren clan.

"I have had rooms made out for you and the Blackwoods, Ser Patrek. The rest of your men will hopefully be comfortable in tents outside our walls. Our keep took much damage during the war, and many rooms have been left burnt and unusable."

"My men will be perfectly fine outside your walls, my Lady. They have gotten used to tents during the war. They know that they will be sleeping in their own beds soon enough."

Barbara bowed her head slightly, and Patrek saw a slight smile on her pale face. She was glad that he had been so welcoming to her news, and that he had not pried into her house's affairs. Having been someone who's house had suffered during the war, namely at the hands of the Freys, he knew how she felt.

"Ser Hugo will escort you up to your chambers, Ser Patrek. I will be walking on the battlements before the feast tonight. I do hope that you will join me, and we can talk about everything that needs to be resolved."

He bowed his head to her, and then followed the large knight into the keep. The Blackwoods followed just behind him, even though Patrek didn't remember inviting them to follow him. He had to balance up the desires of Tytos Blackwood with what was fair, just and right for the Brackens. Maybe he should suggest that the children of Alyn and Barbara should hold the house name of Bracken instead of Blackwood. He doubted that Tytos would go for that personally. There had to be another way.

Hugo opened the door to his chamber, but grabbed Patrek's arm as he entered. The knight leaned in and whispered something to him. His voice was surprisingly soft, and Patrek had to listen intently.

"Look deeper. There's more going on here than you know yet."

And then Hugo Vypren was gone, and instead Tytos, Hoster, Alyn and Ben were all in his chambers, though again Patrek couldn't remember inviting them in. Ben and Hoster stood near to the door, whilst Tytos paced near the fireplace, whilst Alyn stood in the middle of the room.

"I'm not sure this is the right place for your family meeting, Lord Tytos. I am about to change before going to meet Barbara-"

Tytos turned to him angrily, and nearly snarled.

"What? You're going to go to her so that Bracken snake can trick you into whatever plot it is that she has concocted with her sisters to preserve their accursed family name."

That was probably an exaggerated view on what Barbara was planning. Patrek doubted that her sisters were involved, given that most of them were children. Barbara didn't look like the kind of person that would plot vicious things, though Patrek could understand why she would. There was always a sense of pride about one's family and their name.

"I am going to this discussion, Lord Blackwood. It is fair to listen to both sides, and I know what your view on the matter is. I have heard it a number of times, and I need not hear it one more time."

"Very well. If you won't listen to me then listen to Alyn, who has a better understanding of the situation here than you and I."

Patrek closed his eyes and nodded his acceptance of the situation. He opened his eyes, and Alyn shuffled his feet slightly, before speaking.

"Barbara and Jayne are the eldest daughters. Barbara is the heir of Jonos Bracken, their father, but is unwed. A deal was agreed-"

"I need not hear the same story that your father has told me countless times, Alyn. There was a marriage pact signed between the two families, but it has since been lost. I cannot account for where it is, and neither can you or the members of your family. If you want to tell me anything then tell me what is going on in this castle."

Alyn exchanged a brief look with his father. The boy was nervous. Was there some secret he was keeping that Tytos didn't want shared? Did the other boys know about it?

"Barbara was originally betrothed to another man. A Frey who went by the name of Olyvar. Jonos annulled the betrothal after the Frey betrayal at the Twins. Barbara claims she is in mourning for her father and her former love, and that this is what is delaying the arranged marriage between me and her."

Olyvar had been set to marry Barbara? The Frey had never mentioned that detail when they had talked about past experience with women, and Tytos had never mentioned to him that the Bracken heir had been betrothed to Patrek's recently deceased friend. Still, this didn't seem like it was a big enough secret to keep. There was something more going on here. He could just feel it. He was only scratching the surface.

Barbara was clearly using the death of Olyvar as a reason for delaying the marriage between herself and Alyn. The question that remained was why. He couldn't get rid of the feeling that Alyn knew what was going on, and that Tytos might know, too, but he just couldn't understand what it might be.

"If that is all, my Blackwood friends, I must be going. I have to go see the Lady Bracken, and once again offer her my condolences, and then find out the best way to resolve this dire situation. Good day."

He left his chambers then, leaving the Blackwoods behind to plot and scheme behind his back, and instead heading down towards the battlements that ran around Stone Hedge. He climbed atop the circular wall, via a set of steep steps. There he found Barbara, looking out over the sweeping fields and hills of the Riverlands. Hugo Vypren stood by her side, and looked out along with her. He took a step closer, and saw that their hands were entwined.

Hugo heard his step, and instantly let go. He muttered some excuses to disappear, and then hurried away, whilst Barbara turned her sad eyes on him. Patrek bowed his head slightly. Was that secret relationship the secret that Alyn had hidden from him. Had he even known?

"I guess you saw that. Hugo is many things, but a good liar and pretender he is not. It is hard enough keeping the secret from the unsuspecting servants, but you are different. You came here looking for things like that. I wanted you to know now, so as to save any pain later."

"Then why not just tell me? Why make me discover it for myself, if that's even what you would call this. You clearly set me up to find it. I don't get it."

She nodded her head again, and looked at him, before cocking her head to the side.

"I thought it would make a good parallel to what I am going to show you up here, Ser Patrek. You will have to wait to find that out though. Just a few more minutes."

He joined her at the side of the battlements, looking out at the hills and the rolling green landscape. It would have been nice, if you couldn't see the parts that had been ravaged by fire when Lannister raiders and rapers had come here. The forests were damaged and the grass didn't grow in places. Many of the houses that lay further away from the castle looked abandoned. War had changed these lands.

Maybe you could pretend that everything was alright, if you chose to ignore the subtle differences that had affected the people here. A stranger in these lands might not notice, but Patrek did. He would see the same situation at Raventree Hall, or Seagard. Harrenhal, Saltpans, Riverrun. They were all the same. The same subtle differences that war always brings. Sadness wracked Patrek's heart. He was glad that Jeyne wasn't here to see this.

"Once my father ruled all of this land. He might not have seemed it, but he was fair. The loss of my brother and cousin hit him harder than he let on. They were always intended to be his heirs, to carry on his line. He didn't notice his people suffering, because all he could see was the personal wrongs that he had suffered, that our family had suffered. This view… It reminds me of how selfish he was then, but how he was still the man that loved and nurtured me."

"With all due respects, Lady Barbara, I never knew the Jonos Bracken that you did. The man I knew was bitter and twisted, and willing to do anything to achieve what he wanted. He had a temper and-"

Barbara Bracken turned to him, and Patrek felt the need to bow his head again. Had he upset her by disrespecting her father? He hadn't meant it like that. He truly hadn't. Why had he even said those things? It had been cruel.

"Do you see the way that Lord Tytos acts when he visits us here, Lord Mallister? I imagine that he is very different from the man that you knew and campaigned with? Certain things make us irrational and act differently, men most of all. I wonder what yours is?"

He suspected that he knew. There weren't many things that would cause him to rise up into a rage now, but someone badmouthing Jeyne may have done it. He had been angry whenever she had been accused of being complicit in Robb Stark's death during the campaign. He would defend her with his life if necessary, though he hoped that it never would be.

"Ah, there we are. What I brought you up here to see."

Barbara raised her hand and pointed towards the nearby forest. It was a particular grove of trees that she was directing Patrek to look at. In front of them stood a man and a woman. The man was whispering something in the woman's ear. He had jet black hair, whilst hers was gentle brown. She resembled the woman with whom he was currently stood.

He realised with a start that the woman must be Jayne Bracken, Barbara's younger sister, and that the man she was talking with was Alyn Blackwood. Then the two of them shared a kiss, and what Barbara had earlier said to him suddenly made more sense. There was indeed plenty of secrets to be found at Stone Hedge.

"Your sister and your intended-"

"They love each other, Ser Patrek. I do not know what she sees in him, but he has become a better man since meeting her. I have seen that happen. I cannot ruin that which my sister wants and all that she has done with him for the sake of a scrap of paper that my father signed."

"You have the paper?"

She nodded, a sad look in her eyes.

"My father kept copies of all important documents in his solar. I have the marriage pact in there too, with the signatures of my father, Lord Tytos, and Alyn. He does not wish to marry me, but he may wish to marry my sister."

"You think-"

"If I abdicate my birthright, Se Patrek, and allow for Jayne to become the Lady of Stone Hedge, then she can marry Alyn, and Lord Blackwood will have what he wants, a Blackwood Lord of Stone Hedge. Then I can be free to wed Ser Hugo. Both of us will be with the men that we want to be with."

He looked at the ground and nodded. Now he understood. The stubbornness of Lady Barbara had nothing to do with the age-old grudge between these two ancient houses, but it had everything to do with love, both the love that she felt for Hugo Vypren and the love that her sister had for Alyn Blackwood.

He thought of Jeyne, and how deeply he loved her. She was his and the whole world could know it. What must it be like keeping these secrets from your own family?

"To abdicate you would need the written permission of King Edmure. You wish for me to get that for you. I am close with the king, though no doubt you knew that. You hoped for me to get him to agree to your terms for the future of House Bracken. I accept, Lady Barbara. Not just that, but I would offer both you and Ser Hugo a place amongst my retinue and a home at Seagard. That way there will be no confusion over who the Lady of Stone Hedge truly is."

Barbara nodded, and then leaned up to him. Patrek felt her lips leave a mark on his cheek. They brushed over it gently, and a part of him inside felt guilt. It should be Jeyne doing that. He had been away from her for too long. He wished to return to Riverrun soon.

"Thank you, Ser Patrek. You truly are as good a man as they say you are. I will ride with you to Riverrun on the morrow, to make my case to King Edmure myself. For tonight, however, there is a feast ready to be eaten in your honour. If you would follow me."

Barbara left the battlements then, but for a few seconds Patrek did not follow her. Instead he turned and looked out over the Riverlands. He almost didn't notice the destruction.


	112. Tyrion VI

The small Tyrell contingent stood in what had once been the throne room of the Red Keep. It was still in a fairly ruined state, and parts of it were unsafe. Still, a large part of the royal Targaryen court had gathered, and Tyrion Lannister was stood amongst them. Many of them had come straight from the Dragonpit, where the one who had called herself Rhaenys Targaryen had been burned alive by one of the dragons. She wasn't the first person to have met that fate since dragons were reborn into the world. Nor would she be the last.

They found them in another familiar situation, with a group of potential allies or potential enemies stood before Aegon and Daenerys, who were both stood before the Iron Throne. Jon Connington and Barristan Selmy were stood either side of the rulers, with Dareon Lonmouth and Jorah Mormont standing between the Tyrell representatives and the two Targaryens.

The Tyrell men that had come stood in a triangle, with two men stood behind them, carrying banners which bore the golden roses of the Tyrells emblazoned upon them. One of them was older than the others, as he was walking with a stick. The two men wore helmets which covered their faces. Not all of the three men stood together were dressed in Tyrell clothing, but the one in the centre was. He wore plate mail, but with a green cloak. His hair was brown, and his eyes golden.

The men either side of him could not look more different. The first was large and intimidating, whilst the second was shorter and thinner, with grey hair swept across his head, to cover the fact that he was balding. He was at least fifty years of age.

"The court recognises Ser Garlan Tyrell, the Knight of Brightwater Keep and the heir to Highgarden, Osbert Serry, the Lord of Southshield, and Ser Artos Oakheart, the heir to Old Oak. Here to represent the will of Willas Tyrell, the Lord of Highgarden and the Reach."

The booming voice of Dick Cole rang around the ruins of the Red Keep Great Hall. The central figure, Ser Garlan, stepped forward and bowed slightly before Aegon and Daenerys. Oakheart, who was the larger of the two men along with Garlan, stepped forward with him, and Osbert eventually followed, though it was a few seconds after. Tyrion got the impression that Artos Oakheart was a warrior who had followed Garlan into battle, but Osbert was not. He was more cautious, and less in tune with his commander.

Tyrion remembered Garlan from when the Tyrells had been in King's Landing before. They had called him Garlan the Gallant, because of his renowned chivalry. He was also a handsome and clever man, and not your conventional warrior. He had also heard rumours of his brother, Willas, who was said to be wiser and more intelligent than most maesters. The man was a cripple, though. Tyrion was disappointed that he was not here.

"It is an honour to finally meet the famed dragons who both survived the cull of their house by Robert Baratheon. I have heard a lot about you, Queen Daenerys, from your white knight, Ser Humfrey. I have yet to hear enough of you, King Aegon, although I very much hope that I will get to."

Aegon looked to Daenerys, who stepped forward and down the stairs that led up to the Iron Throne. She was still wearing the same clothes which she had worn to the Dragonpit.

"You mentioned Ser Humfrey. Where is he? I thought he would come with you when you arrived."

"Ser Humfrey is enjoying the famed hospitality of House Tyrell. He is with my brother. I assure you that he is safe."

Daenerys sneered, and stepped further down, so she was now stood in between Lonmouth and Mormont.

"Enjoying hospitality is just a fancy way of you telling me that you are holding him as your hostage. I should know, Ser Tyrell. I spent my entire youth in the hospitality of various men who were similar to you and your brother. I was their hostages and their pieces to use as they wish. Deliver me my Kingsguard knight and I will allow to speak with you."

Garlan turned to look at Artos, and then smiled slightly. He turned back to look at Daenerys, but his eyes flicked up to look at Aegon for a few seconds.

"I will send Ser Artos to recover Ser Humfrey. I am sure that he will be joyous to be summoned back to the city by you, and I can assure you that at no point was I trying to offend or threaten you, Queen Daenerys. Nor you, King Aegon."

"We take no offense, Ser Garlan."

Aegon himself now stepped down from his own position. His stride was measured, and there was a deeper, darker fire in the boy king's eyes. He was usually the calmer one compared to Daenerys, who had a fiery passion and desire in her belly, and the two complemented each other well. Tyrion sensed that Aegon was not taking the death of the person he had believed to be his sister very well.

"Then send your man away and we can talk, Ser Tyrell."

Garlan turned to Artos Oakheart, and nodded to him. The large man silently left the room. Tyrion was surprisecd that it was Oakheart that was dispatched and not one of the banner holders or -Osbert Serry. Garlan then turned back to the two Targaryens.

"We can talk now then?"

"Surely it would be preferable for you to talk in private. We can-"

Garlan raised his hand. There was an intake of breath from some of those gathered. Had the Tyrell knight just demanded for Aegon to stop talking? Tyrion shuffled on his feet uncomfortably.

"I must stop you there, King Aegon, for I do not wish a private discussion. I do not mind discussing the terms of House Tyrell giving you our support in front of the sizeable court that you have assembled.

Tyrion saw Jon Connington shift his own feet then, and Daenerys shot a look in the direction of Barristan Selmy, who shrugged slightly. She then turned back to look at Garlan.

"I believe you mean discuss the terms of your surrender, Ser Garlan. Does that change where you would like this meeting to take place?"

"Forgive me, Queen Daenerys, but I do not recall when my house has come out in opposition to yours. We have not declared ourselves independent, like the Tullys or the Royces. We have merely been travelling from Highgarden. It is a long journey, and we have had plenty of problems to deal with."

A man stepped forward from the crowd then. He was large, and bore the golden bands that signified him as one of the sellsword members of the Golden Company.

"The court recognises Lord Laswell Peake of the Golden Company."

"Your graces, I have many friends within the Reach, and the information that they have provided me is that Lord Willas has been in Highgarden for months, and that Ser Garlan has been spending his time at his castle at Brightwater Keep."

"And would these sources not have told you that a Tyrell army was approaching your gates, Peake? Either they did and you didn't inform your rulers, or they didn't and it turns out that you don't have so many friends after all."

Garlan returned his attention to Daenerys and Aegon. Tyrion found that the man had a strange way of shutting down things that he didn't approve of whilst also coming across as gallant and chivalrous. He was not a rude man. His father and mother had raised him well. He was an adept player of the game of thrones. He shouldn't be underestimated just because his elder brother wasn't here for the exchange.

"Besides, your graces, I do believe that my father sent a Tyrell to you already. My brother should be somewhere here, should he not?"

"I am, brother."

The figure of Loras Tyrell stepped forward from the crowd, and walked towards Garlan. The two of them exchanged a long embrace, and Tyrion saw Loras' eyes scanning the men stood behind his brother.

Loras had fallen from favour after the arrival of Daenerys, and had become little more than a glorified prisoner. He was allowed to roam the castle but not the city, and he was almost always under some form of an armed guard. Usually it wouldn't quite be as obvious as that. It might be two men hidden in the shadows, or one following him from a distance, but it had been clear that Ser Loras was not trusted.

When the two brothers broke their embrace, they rested their foreheads together. Tyrion saw Garlan say something, he saw his lips moving, and yet he couldn't hear what it was that he said. Loras nodded, and turned to look at the two Targaryens.

"Our father followed Aerys the Second during the Usurper's Rebellion. House Tyrell owes our power to your family. My brother is no liar, your graces. They call him Garlan the Gallant for a reason. If he comes to you and says that he desires peace then that is what he desires. He may be a soldier, but he is no mindless warrior. I vouch for him."

To Tyrion's surprise, it was Daenerys who seemed more accepting of the testimony of the Knight of Flowers. Aegon looked moody and grumpy. He looked like he really didn't want to be here.

"You are right, Ser Loras. Your house has always remained loyal to ours. That being said, the terms of surrender must still be discussed-"

"Surrender, your grace?"

That voice was a new one. It was the voice of one of the men who carried the Tyrell banner, the one with the stick. What was he doing talking here?

"As Ser Garlan has said, House Tyrell is not in open rebellion to either the crown or the throne. There is no surrender to discuss."

The man threw down his hood, and Tyrion realised he had been wrong when he assumed him to be elderly. He was middle aged, maybe around thirty years of age. He had swept brown hair, and a thick beard which was cropped close. His eyes were golden, and he walked with a limp. He realised instantly who this man must be, but seemingly Aegon took slightly longer over the realisation.

"The highborns are talking, bannerholder. Keep yourself in your place."

Garlan coughed slightly then, and gestured to the man.

"King Aegon, Queen Daenerys, may I introduce you to my brother, Willas Tyrell, the Lord of Highgarden and the Reach and the rightful Warden of the South. I apologise for the deception-"

"But I desired to see how you would treat my emissary before I decided what House Tyrell would be doing. I had hoped that Garlan would be able to secure a deal, but through no fault of his own he has not been able to. I am now willing to negotiate somewhere a bit more private."

Aegon looked taken aback, and it was Daenerys who nodded.

"Very well. Ser Barristan, escort the Lords Tyrell to the Small Council chambers. We shall talk with them there. We will be joined by Lords Jon Connington, Selwyn Tarth, and Renfred Rykker. We will also be joined by Khal Rogero."

Daenerys' eyes scanned across the hall, and Tyrion felt them land on him.

"And you Tyrion Lannister. Come. Let us negotiate."

The three Tyrells went ahead with Ser Barristan, whilst Aegon, Jon and Selwyn got themselves into a fierce discussion, which was taking place through angry, hushed whispers. Rogero walked with the two Kingsguards at the back, Ser Jorah Mormont and Brienne of Tarth. Renfred Rykker walked alone. That left Tyrion waddling on besides Daenerys.

"You served as Hand of the King to the traitor Joffrey Baratheon, did you not, Lord Lannister?"

"He was my nephew, your grace. I served as acting Hand for when my father, the hated Tywin Lannister, was absent from the city. I conducted myself well."

Daenerys nodded at that. Her steps were careful and precise, Tyrion noticed. She was dainty in some ways, but firm in others, and she truly was beautiful. Aegon was indeed a very lucky man, or was it Rogero who was lucky?

"You would be familiar with the Tyrells then? One of them was wed to Joffrey Baratheon, I understand. You have dealt with them before?"

"I have. They are honest people, but clever and ambitious. They have good taste in wine, though. That is always a positive."

The joke did not illicit any sort of response from Daenerys. Maybe she hadn't got it. Did he need to explain it to her?

"You must keep yourself from getting too drunk then. I am appointing you to serve as a link between me and my husband and these Tyrells. You will escort them around and make sure they are comfortable. When all is done then we can use their army to make the Tullys bend the knee. Do well and I will see that a place on the small council is granted to you."

"And in doing so you will make the small council even smaller, your grace."

Still no laugh came from the pursed lips of Daenerys Targaryen. Maybe the girl just lacked a sense of humour, or maybe she thought now not the time for such jokes. Maybe she was right. Tyrion had never found himself good at understanding when was the time for a jape or a quip. Was this meant to be a serious occasion?

"In a few days I intend to ride from the city to Harrenhal, where my ancestor Aegon defeated the last Hoare king of the Iron Islands, and then from there to Riverrun. You will be left behind, as Castellan of King's Landing. When I return then you shall depart for Casterly Rock, to take your place there."

Castellan of King's Landing? It wasn't quite being named Hand, but he could work with it. Mayhaps he could use the position to discover and oust the people in this city who opposed him and his family. Provided their leader didn't leave the city to join Daenerys on her journey through the Riverlands.

Soon they were in the small council chambers, and most of the members had taken their regular seats. Tyrion found him seated on a smaller one, next to a window, watching in on the scene that was about to take place. He quite liked the way that it made him feel. As if he was some sort of watcher on the wall.

The two Tyrells stood in front of the table. Lord Tarth offered the crippled Willas a chair, but the Lord of Highgarden waved him away. He was capable of standing with the aid of his cane.

"So, my Lords, I suppose it is now time for us to discuss your tactical surrender. We have our terms. Highgarden will swear itself to the Iron Throne and reiterate its vows to House Targaryen. In return, you shall send your sister and brother to serve at court, with Lady Margaery serving as handmaiden to my wife, and Ser Loras keeping his place at the head of the Order of the Seven."

Willas and Garlan shared a look, but then turned back to Aegon, who had been speaking. It was Willas who now spoke.

"My sister holds no desire to return to this city. It is where our father and mother perished, and many of her friends and companions. As for Loras, well what he does is up to him. I must reiterate that our coming here is not so we can surrender, for we have never opposed Targaryen rule. We are here as allies. We have our own terms."

This time it was Daenerys and Aegon who exchanged a look. The two of them weren't yet on the same wave length. Not in the same way that the Tyrell brothers were. They always seemed to understand what the other was thinking. It was instinctive.

"The armies of House Tyrell will not be sent into battle. Not with Houses Tully, Royce or Lannister. We will march with you against Stannis Baratheon and his Florent allies. That is all."

"Your armies could take Riverrun by themselves if they wanted to. Most of your troops have survived upto this point."

Garlan nodded at that, and it was his turn to speak. He was the military expert of these two men. That area was not one that Willas specialised in.

"That is true. You have Unsullied, Dothraki, the Golden Company, the Second Sons, the Windblown, the Storm Lords, the Crown Lords, and soon Dorne on your side. You do not need our men at Riverrun. We will only march against Stannis Baratheon and his allies."

Aegon looked as if he was about to answer back to that assessment, but Lord Connington wisely interrupted him.

"His allies? What then of Justin Massey and his twenty thousand Braavosi sellswords? They have made camp on Massey's Hook. Would you fight them."

Garlan and Willas exchanged another look. The suggestion had caught them off guard. Had they not known about Justin Massey? It had been clumsy to suggest fighting his allies if they had, but their preparation for this meeting had been poor if they were not aware of all the threats that the Targaryens were facing.

Daenerys' plan to move on Riverrun was a dangerous one. It could potentially leave King's Landing exposed to attacks from Justin Massey. If they could send the Tyrells after him then maybe that would solve that problem. Tyrion had to admit, it was a smart play from Lord Connington. The old man had a swifter mind than he had originally thought.

"We would need time to think on that. We can return to camp and see that you have a response shortly."

"No."

Daenerys rose from her seat quickly. She seemed too eager, but Tyrion understood what she was doing. If the Tyrells returned to their camp then they may be free to launch an attack on the city. They were best keeping them there.

"We will have rooms made out for you, my Lords Tyrell, and Lord Tyrion has offered to see that you are well looked after during your stay in the city."

Another look between Garlan and Willas. Tyrion rose from his chair and waddled over to them, a beaming smile on his face. He escorted them out of the room, and then directed them down the corridor. He then closed the small council doors, and whispered something to himself.

"Welcome to King's Landing, Lords Tyrell."


	113. The Forsaken Brother

Aeron was slouched against the wall in his brother's cabin. Euron paced slowly, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. He had been like this for hours. He was agitated about something, Aeron could see that. He had known his brother long enough to know when something was bothering him. Aeron hoped that it wasn't he that had upset Euron, as he wasn't sure that his body could take another one of his brother's punishments tonight.

It had been a few days ago that he had received a letter from the south, where some of his loyal men had sighted the two ships that their shared niece, Asha, had spirited away from under his nose. He had sent the order to engage them, but their had been no response since. He was anxious about that maybe? Euron had been anxiously looking for Asha since she disappeared, and for their nephew, Theon, too. He had been forcing Aeron to look for them, and punished him whenever his searches proved fruitless, which was all the time.

It felt like some mystical presence was preventing him from seeing where they were.

His brother paced back and forward some more, and then stopped in front of his desk, placing his hands on the wood. He tensed his hands so hard that his knuckles went white.

"What do you think, brother? Do you think of little Asha and Theon, as I do? Our niece has grown to be quite the woman. I envy you that you got to see her grow from a little girl to what she is now. Rest assured, had I been in the Islands when those breasts came in, she would be thrice a mother by now."

Aeron flinched as his brother talked to him directly. He had grown used to answering Euron when he was spoken to, though. It was the only time he was allowed to talk now.

"I did not notice, brother mine. I gave my life to the Drowned God, and swore my vows of celibacy."

Euron laughed at that, though there was something queer about the manner of it. It felt almost forced.

"Some vows I doubt you could have broken had you wanted to, brother. Given that beard, I doubt any woman on the Iron Islands would have slept with you, especially if the hair around your cock was as thick as that around your mouth."

The words cut Aeron. He had lost his beard during all these events, and with it he had been stripped of his pride and his position. Once he had been the holiest man on the Iron Islands, as well as the brother and sound counsel of Balon Greyjoy, the Lord Reaper of Pyke. Since Balon's death he had been mistreated by first Asha and then Euron. He had nothing of his old life left.

"Would you like to see something truly magnificent, brother? One of the treasures that I recovered from my trip to the ruins of Old Valyria."

Euron did not wait for an answer, and instead moved over to a cupboard which stood in the corner. He opened it with the flick of a wrist, and pulled out a small wooden box, which he laid down on the desk in his cabin. He blew a layer of dust from the lid, and then opened the box. The lid moved with a squeak and a creak. Euron put his hands into the box, and pulled out a curved horn.

The skin of the horn had a shiny lustre, as if it had been polished. Around it were bands of Valyrian steel, which held jewels of amber and emerald in place. The wood was made of shades of light and dark brown, which rippled across the skin of the horn. Euron walked over to him, and placed the horn down on the ground in front of him, just out of arm's reach.

"Do you know what it is, brother?"

"The dragon horn. The one you used at the Kingsmoot to woo the captains into choosing you as king. That is what it is."

"Alas no, brother mine. I gave that horn to Victarion, and it is now lost somewhere in the east, likely at the bottom of some ocean. This is the second of the two horns that I recovered from those ruins. They call this one the Horn of Spring. Legend tells that when the darkness covers the world this horn can be blown to bring light to that darkness. Well, that is what legends say, at the very least."

What did Euron want from a horn that brought the end of darkness? Aeron's brother embraced the darkest areas of the world and the mind. Darkness was his cloak and his shroud, and it was what he most desired for the rest of the world. Why did he have this?

"This is what my enemies need, although I doubt they yet know it. This horn was given to Azor Ahai by Nyssa Nysaa, or so they say. Without it, the sword known as Lightbringer is virtually worthless, and whilst it is in my possession it shall never be in theirs."

So that was it. The horn was needed to bring light to the world, and so Euron would keep it locked up in that cupboard, hidden away in the very darkness that it was meant to defend against. It would never be used and mankind would be ruined, all because it had fallen into the hands of the wrong man.

Had Euron acquired it by chance? Or had he headed to Valyria with the express intention of recovering the horn? That was an important question too, though Aeron doubted if it was one that his brother would answer. Aeron had discovered that their was darker forces at work in his brother's mind. He was not the mastermind, but was merely obeying orders from some malevolent watcher. Had it been that creature that had sent Euron to Valyria? Why?

"What are you, brother? What have you become?"

"Do you not see it yet, brother? I am the same man that I have always been. This was my destiny. This was my fate. I was chosen to be the one to fly. I was chosen to be the last storm, the greatest storm that Westeros has ever known. I was not chosen now. I was chosen, not when I became an adult, but when I was born. I was always destoned to be what I am now, but I'm not done yet. Very soon, brother. Very soon you shall see my true power."

Euron clutched up the horn, and put it back in the wooden box, placing it back in the cupboard. There was no lock on the cupboard. There was no need. No man on this ship would dare to steal from Aeron's brother.

"Take him back to his cell, Codd."

Just then a ragged figure rose from the opposite side of the room. The man that had once been Left Hand Lucas Codd was now just an empty shell who did Euron's bidding. His eyes were deep into his face, and they were hollow and empty too, with little more than plain white within them. He wore rags, that were torn from sleeping and kneeling on the floor all day. His hair was tousled, matted and long, where Aeron's was kept short, as a constant reminder to him of the power and control that Euron had over him.

You could tell how broken Codd had become from the way that he walked. It was a weird cross between a shuffle and a shamble, and there was a slight limp to it as well. When Codd placed his hand on Aeron's shoulder he found it to be cold and clammy, as if it was the hand of a dead man, a man that had drowned and never woken back up.

Lucas pulled him from the room, and Aeron watched his brother as it happened. Euron had turned his back on them, and was now looking at his desk. He started to speak not long before they passed through the doors. He only overheard a few words.

"Yes, Lord Bloodraven. It shall be soon. I will add tens of thousands to your armies."

Then the doors were closed, and Aeron was escorted back to his cell.

He found two people already waiting in the cell. Malora Hightower was squatted in the corner, pissing into a pile of matted and yellow straw. The other woman was sat on the floor, her knees up against her chin, and slowly shaking. Her eyes were empty. She was making some strange noises, but they were easy to block out.

He found himself thrown on the floor. It was sticky and wet, from piss and seawater. He got up to his knees, and looked to Malora, who had finished and was now stood up. She looked down at him.

Aeron closed his eyes and looked down. Euron said that he had put him in this cell so that he could use Malora and the other girl for sex, should he want it, but of course he didn't want that. Instead, Malora had told him about many of the things that Euron wouldn't. There were some things that his brother tried to keep secret. He couldn't always be intimidating him.

"You have been gone for days, Aeron. I am glad to see you again. What did he do to you this time? Rape? Torture? Did he tell you more stories of the oncoming darkness?"

"None of those things. He just made me sit. He made me watch him. He was nervous. Something big is happening soon, Malora. I can sense it. I can see it from the way that he moves. He is waiting for orders."

Malora didn't react to that information. It was as if she had already guessed the information. Aeron had thought that she had told him everything that she knew. Had that not been the case? Was there more that she hadn't shared with him?

The Mad Maid's eyes flicked over to the woman who had joined them in the cell. Like Malora she was clad in nothing. Her eyes were dead and empty, but not in the same way as Lucas Codd's. There was still madness in this girl, but Euron had driven any sanity in her away. She was not the same person that she had been when she had first met the Crow's Eye, Aeron was sure about that. It was an effect that Euron tended to have on those around him.

They had only talked in hushed whispers when the woman had first been delivered, but after a few days they had realised that she was not a spy. She was a ruined woman, and there was no way that she would serve Euron after everything that he had done to her.

"The cold. The cold is coming. The endless cold. Coming. Coming. Winter is Coming."

She muttered the same words and phrases over and over again. There was no pattern or sense to it. They were the ramblings of a broken, mad woman. Still, her presence seemed to make Malora uncomfortable in some way. She didn't like what was left of the woman that had once been Falia Flowers.

"Did he show you it?"

His eyes moved away from the trembling and broken Falia and back to Malora, who had turned her eyes back on him. She didn't specify what she meant, but Aeron somehow knew that she meant the horn. How had she known about it? Had Euron showed it to her at some other time? Was that it?

"He did. He has it. The horn."

"I feared as much. Still, it is better than some of the alternatives. Your brother is no general. He ia soldier following orders. We have to get that horn off him before he manages to get rid of it."

Aeron furrowed his brow at that. She hadn't known that Euron had the horn then. Had she merely been guessing? He knew that she was aware of the supernatural plots that were going on, some of which involved both him and his brother. The horn was part of that. He could sense it when Euron had shown it to him. It was older than anything Aeron had seen before, and there was something different about it, which had made his skin prickle.

"The horn cannot be destroyed, but if he hands it over… We must find a way to claim it before winter's icy hands take it from us. At least we know where it is now."

"The cold hands. The cold hands around my throat. Winter. Winter's cold hand."

Both their eyes slowly moved back to Falia Flowers, who had risen from her sitting position, and was now walking over to Malora. The bastard wrapped her hands around Malora's throats, and slowly started to choke her. Aeron wanted to rush forward and help the Mad Maid, but something in his body willed him not to. Instead he sat back, as he heard a click at the entrance to their cell.

He watched as Lucas Codd ambled over to the two women and easily separated them. Euron followed him into the cell, and looked at the three of them before laughing his usual mocking laughter. It was a crow's laugh.

"Are you three ready? Winter has come. I am its emissary and its storm. Today the world changes, and I am the tool of the gods who will do it."


	114. The Wolf in Chains

The shackles were wrapped around her wrists, and the chains were only slightly long enough for her to get to the door of her cabin. Arya was a prisoner, both in this room and also in her marriage. There was no point in trying to escape. She knew that Jon Redfort was on the other side of the door, and he would subdue her should she manage to leave. No, she was a prisoner here. This was her punishment for killing Petyr Baelish. It was worth it.

They had ridden from Runestone for Gulltown, where they had boarded a ship that was destined for White Harbour. She had spent the ride to Gulltown riding on the same horse as Andar Royce. That had been unpleasant. He had touched her, and she could feel his hardness through his breeches the whole way.

It had been Raymund Frey that had overseen her boarding of the ship, though she had refused to look at the man and his weaselly chin. She hadn't talked to him, which had suited the Frey fine, as he simply grabbed her and threw her around. It was he that had put the shackles and the chains on her.

The only people save for Andar, Jon and the Frey that were allowed in to see her was her new husband, Robert Arryn. The boy was homesick and seasick. He was so far away from where he felt comfortable. He had grown up in the mountains of the Vale, or in King's Landing. The sea had been far away from the Eyrie. He had never had to be concerned about it.

She had heard stories about the sickly boy and how weak and frail Robert was, but he didn't seem like that to her. He was getting taller since the day they had first met, and there was the shadow of a moustache forming above his upper lip. He was less pale now, and he never had fits. Ever since he had been taken away from the Eyrie and Petyr Baelish, maybe even from when his mother had been killed.

He liked the stories that she could tell him. He liked hearing about her time at Harrenhal, and all the knights she had met. Arya scared him with tales of Amory Lorch and Gregor Clegane. He always found excitement in her tales of the Brotherhood without Banners and the Faceless Men in Braavos, though she had left some of the gorier details out. She didn't want to scare her husband too much. They had to share a bed after all.

Robert was only ten years of age, and he was too young. It would not be long before they first became intimate, when he was ten and two years maybe, or when he was the age that she was now. It would be a few years. They had kissed before, though, but both of them had been nervous. She didn't love Robert, and it would be pushing it to say that she cared for him, but he was the man that she was destined to spend her life with.

There was one other thing that Arya didn't want to tell him. She had never told him about Gendry, not out of fear that he would be jealous, but just because it felt strange openly discussing him. Almost as if she was breaking some sort of agreement that she had made with herself. She was putting a part of her life behind her.

"Then they pulled the clothes from his back and threw him into the bear pit. I didn't see him die, but I could hear his screams as he was mauled to death. He deserved it though. He deserved it for what he did to Yoren."

She was telling him of the time that the Brave Companions had taken Harrenhal and fed Amory Lorch to their bear. Robert was squeezing a cushion across his chest. He often did that when he thought a story was getting too scary.

"Why don't you tell me a story, Robert?"

He frowned slightly, his lips pursed together.

"A story? I don't have many of those. Not as many as you anyway. My stories aren't interesting. I knew your sister. I knew Maester Colemon, and Uncle Petyr, but he killed my mother. He killed my friends. There was a singer, too. He was scary. He made himself fly, but- But he didn't go away. Every night I could still hear him singing, but Sansa told me he was dead. Uncle Petyr told me that he was dead. I could still hear him though, singing his sad songs. Always singing."

Those words were left in the air for a few seconds. Arya disliked how Robert always referred to Lord Baelish as Uncle Petyr. Did the boy not realise what a great betrayal Baelish had performed on him? He had killed his mother. He had murdered her in cold blood and then lied about it. They should bond over that. Baelish had betrayed one of their parents. He had helped to ruin their lives and to destroy them.

Instead, they just avoided the topic. When Baelish did come up, Robert spoke of him affectionately, as if he still cared for the man that had murdered his mother. Arya found it hard to listen to. She had got the revenge that her family needed on Lord Baelish, but still she didn't want to hear the name spoken with such love. Baelish had been a monster, who thrived off chaos and disaster, and was happy to do anything that he could, kill anyone that he needed, to cause that. It had all been a ladder for him to climb.

"Who was the friend that he killed?"

"Maester Colemon. Uncle Petyr poisoned him after we arrived at the Gates of the Moon. I wanted to be back in the Eyrie, and Colemon got sick. He told me the truth. He told me what Uncle Petyr did to him and to my mother. That was why Uncle Petyr started to confine me to my room, and only let me out to train with a sword and a bow. He didn't even let me visit my friend. I was alone. Not even Sansa visited me."

The boy had been alone in a full castle. She had been alone in the Riverlands, her father murdered before her and then separated from her friends. She had been alone in Braavos. Jaqen hadn't been there, just the Kindly Man and the Waif. She had been alone with Queen Daenerys, even though she had been surrounded by an army. She had been the lone wolf without a pack.

Once there had been six of them. There had been four boys and two girls, though Rickon had been little more than a pup. Now she was but one. She knew that Rickon, Bran and Robb had all died, and word had come that spoke of a bastard Lord Commander murdered at the Wall. Sansa was missing, but was probably dead in some ditch somewhere.

She was the lone wolf, and the white winds of winter were coming. Her father had spoken words of that effect to her. She had to survive. Even when the winds blew their chillest. She would survive. She always survived.

She had survived the Brotherhood without Banners and she had survived Sandor Clegane. She had survived Harrenhal and the treacherous Roose Bolton. She had survived Braavos and escaped the clutches of the Many Faced God. She would survive this evil too, and she would escape from the clutches of Andar Royce and Raymund Frey.

All she had to do was escape the chains.

The door to her cabin opened then, and Jon Redfort stepped in. He still carried himself well when on board the ship, but she knew that he was glad to always be below decks. Being out in the open with the boat rocking back and forth made him unwell. It was less disturbing down here, in the bowels of the ship. It was darker though, and she missed the feel of sunlight upon her skin.

"Lord Robert, I have been asked to summon you away from Lady Stark. Lord Royce wishes to have some words with her alone."

Okay. Is Ser Raymund on deck?"

Redfort shook his head, and Robert smiled. He also didn't like the Frey man. He left the room, then, and Jon stood aside so that Andar Royce could step inside. Robert was humming as he left, and Andar watched him go, a mocking smile played out on his lips.

"You may leave us for some rest, Ser Jon. I can assure you that the girl is perfectly safe under my watchful care. I will wake you in a few hours."

Arya could tell that Redfort was reluctant about leaving them alone, but the luck in Andar's eyes urged him to leave. He looked to her, an apologetic gleam in his eyes. They both knew why Andar was here then. They both knew what he meant by some words alone.

Andar closed the door behind Jon, and turned to her, the mocking smile still on his face. He wetted his lower lip with his tongue slightly, before walking over to s amll cabinet in the far corner of the room. It was jut out of her reach with the chains. He knew that. Of course he did. He removed a flagon of wine, and poured himself a goblet full.

"You used my knife to kill Petyr Baelish. You stole it from me and used it to brutally murder him."

"Is it murder if I was delivering the Old God's justice, Royce? Lord Baelish deserved to die, so aye, I did kill him with your blade. You already knew that though. Stop dancing around what it is you are here to do."

Andar laughed. It was a cruel hid this side of him well in public. It only came out in private. He was a cruel, sadistic man. He hadn't despoiled her yet, though that could easily change. He had all the power here.

"Come over to me, girl. You know what will become of you should you refuse."

She did. He might cut her lightly with his knife, the same one she had used on Baelish. She had scars from that on her thighs and her arms. He might beat her, or slap her, or hit her with the flat of his sword until she bore bruises. She wanted to fight, and she already had done. Today she was too tired. Today she was broken. Today she had decided to give in.

She rose from her position, and strained, carrying the heavy weights of the chains until she was stood in front of Andar. He leant down and whispered into her ear.

"But the dancing is half the fun, Lady Stark. Watching you squirm gives me twice the pleasure that your tight cunt ever could. Show me your arms, girl."

She raised her arms for him, like she was some mummer's trick, and he ran his fingers up and down her skin. Some of the marks had gone white where they had healed. Others were still red. He found the most recent one, which he had given her a few days before for refusing to piss in her bed. She hadn't wanted to sleep in that. She knew that there were no clean sheets coming her way.

He pressed down on the wound, and she winced. The pain shot through her arm, and blood started to bead from the cut. Andar smiled, and then laughed. He released the pressure, and Arya dropped her arm. It had been tough to hold it up. She was stronger than most girls her age would be, but these chains were heavy, and difficult to hold up.

The Hound would have had no problem with them.

"What do we say to your lord, girl?"

"I won't say it."

He grabbed her by the chin, and slammed her back against the wooden wall of the cabin. She felt the wind disappear from her lungs as the collision happened. He forced his face right into hers, and wetted his lips again. He squeezed her cheeks with his fingers, so that the skin hurt.

"Say it, wolf bitch."

She tried to fight him off her, but he was too strong. Eventually she had to just give up. He had lifted her off the ground, and the chains were weighing her down. The guilt and the hatred for herself for what she was about to say weighed her down further.

"Thank you, my Lord."

"That's a good girl. Was that so hard?"

Arya choked as she was dropped to the floor. Andar stood over her and laughed. He was cruel. He liked to be in control.

"If you were anybody else then I would have taken you by now, but my father has forbidden it. He was good friends with your father, and apparently that means that I'm not allowed to rape you. I respect my father and I will honour his wishes. That doesn't mean we can't have some fun though. I'll be back tomorrow."

Arya was too busy gulping for air to pay him much heed. She didn't even notice him slip out of the room. When she next looked up, she found that her captor wads gone. She rolled onto her back and stared up at the ceiling, her arms outsretched.

Was this her life now? Was this all that she was destined to be? A captive of men that she hated? The wife of a boy that she didn't love? She had travelled across the Riverlands with Sandor Clegane. She had been trained by the Faceless Men of Braavos. She had served as an envoy for Daenerys Targaryen, the Mother of Dragons.

Yet here she was. Broken and destroyed. She was a tool for the Royces to achieve their ambitions. She was nothing. She would be used. She was weak and spineless and broken.

"You are a sword, boy, are you not?"

She looked up and found the slight figure of Syrio Forel walking around the room. This couldn't be possibly. Her dancing master had died in King's Landing. He couldn't be here. She was just imagining him. Still, maybe he could comfort her some.

"I used to be. When I was with you, or the Hound, or the Kindly Man. Now I'm nothing. Not a sword, not a boy. I'm a broken girl."

"Broken? No. You are lost, boy. The god of death has come for you before, and you have run. Not today, you said. That running has brought you here, boy. You were meant to be here. You were meant to do what it is that us coming. Your brother. He is coming."

Syrio's form flickered for a few seconds, and as it did Arya thought that she could see something different behind the Dancing Master's clothes. It was a slight boy with brown eyes. His face was familiar, but she didn't see him long enough to put a name to the face. Suddenly her Dancing Master was replaced by a man dressed in a black and white cowl. His kind eyes gazed down on her.

"The gift must be given, Arya of House Stark. It is you that shall give it to him. You must not judge, but those that are marked it brings an end to pain. An end to want. When the time comes you know who must be given the gift, even if it hurts you to see it done. Until then you must survive, Arya Stark."

And with those words her two Braavosi mentors disappeared into the air, and she was alone.


	115. Tyrion VII

Willas and Garlan Tyrell were sat opposite him, on the other side of the table. In front of each of them was a glass, with each containing a sizeable portion of one of the bottles of Arbor Gold that the Tyrells had brought with them from Highgarden. They had been providing him with an update from their war with Euron Greyjoy, the Crow's Eye King of the Iron Islands. Tyrion had been trying to get them to peaceably bend the knee before Aegon and Daenerys. Both of the Tyrell men were clever, and yet they were also being stubborn and obstinate on this issue.

They were joined in the room by three more men.

Tyrion's brother, Jaime, was stood near the door. He had turned down the offer of wine. Jaime had never been one for drinking. That had always been more of a Tyrion or Cersei thing to do. Instead he was protecting the door, like an ever vigilant guard dog, though Tyrion was unsure what he actually expected to come through and attack them. They were in the heart of the Red Keep. They would be safe here.

Having said that, Jaime had displayed extra caution ever since Tyrion had told him about the words of Asher Hayford. There were people in this castle who hated the lion of Lannister, and were plotting against them as a result. They could never be too safe.

The next man in the room was the third Tyrell brother. Ser Loras was stood by the window, looking out over the ruins of the city, and the ruined White Sword Tower which stood nearby. The building had stayed up, but very little from inside had survived. The legendary White Book, which stored the achievements of countless generations of Kingsguard knights, had been destroyed. They had found the charred remains of Boros Blount sat at the table.

The last man here was almost a stranger to Tyrion, but his presence had been insisted on by Jon Connington, who had Aegon's ear. His name was Franklyn Flowers. He was a bastard red apple Fossoway from the Reach, and a member of the Golden Company.

"So, you're telling me that Ser Tanton Fossoway was killed during the retaking of Brightwater keep, and Lord Mychel was killed during the Destruction of King's Landing? Who then rules Cider Hall?"

Willas rolled his eyes then. The man had quite a quick wit, and Tyrion had grown to like him. Mind you, he did have a soft spot for cripples, bastards and broken things.

"Lord Mychel's widow holds the castle in name, but that is unofficial. The green apple Fossoways may have put forward more of a claim, but Lord Jon perished here as well. His heir and the new lord is a boy of seven years. He is of no age to hold two castles. I assume you ask for a reason, Tyrion?"

"Yes. As a matter of fact I do. I was instructed to ask by Jon Connington, the Master of Laws. Ser Franklyn here is a bastard red apple Fossoway, a brown apple if you will. If there are no other red apple Fossoways, then it has been suggested that Ser Franklyn should take the post. Would that be objectionable to you?"

Willas looked to Garlan. The brothers had some sort of mental link between them. They always seemed to know what the other thought about everything, It was strange. Tyrion had never had that connection with either of his siblings.

"It would be conceding land belonging to House Tyrell to members of the Golden Company loyal to Harry Strickland and Jon Connington. We will agree this, however, should Ser Franklyn acquiesce the right to choose his household staff to me and Ser Garlan."

Franklyn grunted. The man was not a diplomat, and Tyrion expected that he did not wish to be here with any particular fervour. To be fair, Tyrion wasn't exactly thrilled with the man's presence.

Daenerys and Aegon had departed the city a few days prior. They were heading to Harrenhal, and then on to Riverrun, where Edmure Tully sat in rebellion. With them had gone many of the important military men, but the Red Keep was not entirely empty. There were a few Tyrell servants here, and then some members of the Golden Company, as Harry Strickland had stayed behind. They were also joined by a few of the Crown and Storm Lords.

"I will take that as a yes from the both of you then. Ser Franklyn has already selected a small group of men that will ride from the city with him today."

"And I should be leaving this wretched room. Soon I shall be Lord Franklyn Flowers. They will sing songs of my name, I think."

The man certainly didn't lack for confidence, was all that Tyrion could think as Franklyn left. He was no legendary swordsman, though he was also no wilting flower. He was large and imposing, though he was out of place in the rooms of diplomacy, away from the battlefield that he so lusted for.

"I assume you did not visit us solely to discuss the inheritance of the bastard sworn sword of a member of your King's small council. I assume this is another excuse for you to try and persuade me to bend the knee."

"My King and my Queen have agreed to your terms at long last, Lord Tyrell. She will not call the armies of the reach into war with Edmure Tully or Yohn Royce. Instead they desire for you to rally your Tyrell men, and the men from the Stormlands, and then march them to Massey's Hook, where you will deliver the dragon's justice on Ser Justin Massey and his army of sellswords. In return you will announce your support for the dragon."

Willas did not need to look at Garlan that time. Instead the crippled Tyrell lord just smiled, and nodded slightly.

"Very well. I shall accept those terms, Tyrion. Your sellsword leader shall be dealt with."

Willas did turn to a brother now, but it was Loras, not Garlan.

"Loras, brother mine. Ride for the camp of our men and rally them and ready them. They shall march east on the morn. You shall lead them. One hundred men shall stay behind to serve me, and two hundred shall ride with Garlan, who is to leave the city. I shall be remaining behind."

Tyrion had known the Knight of Flowers when he had been a younger man, and he knew that Ser Loras was not a man who took orders well, and yet when it was Willas who gave commands the youngest Tyrell seemed to listen. Loras nodded, before leaving the room, reducing their number down to four.

Garlan rose from his place too. Tyrion was suspicious of how Willas had left it vague where Garlan was taking his two hundred men. That was not enough to plan any treachery against them however. Mayhaps Garlan had learned of some stray Ironborn encroachment.

"It has been too long since we have talked, Ser Jaime! Come, let us share a walk, and leave the politicians to their business."

Jaime was reluctant about leaving, Tyrion could see that in his brother's face, but Garlan had not asked him, and the Tyrell man now had his arm around Jaime's shoulders, gently escorting him out of the room. Now Tyrion was alone with Willas. He suspected that it had been engineered like this from the start. This was the exact scenario that Willas had wanted.

"I like you, Lannister. You're clever. You understand the way the world works. You understand that I can't just bend the knee to your king and queen because they order me to. You know that there has to be some give and take. That's why I want to give you something."

Willas pulled himself out of his chair, and picked up the walking stick that had been balanced next to the desk. He walked over to the window and looked out over the ruins of the city. There was a sad look in his eyes, and Tyrion could guess why. The Tyrell man had lost both his father and mother in the destruction of the city.

"Highgarden holds no reason to like you, and no reason to do your family any favours. It was your sister that destroyed this once thriving city and killed my mother and father along with it. My grandmother fell ill after hearing the news and died shortly after. No matter what she said, she always loved my father. Losing both him and Margaery… It was too much."

The Lord of Highgarden readjusted his standing position, and then looked back over his shoulder at Tyrion.

"Do you know how my legs were ruined, Lannister?"

"A riding accident, wasn't it? Your horse collapsed and crushed your legs. You would never walk again, that's what they told you. They were wrong."

Willas closed his eyes and shook his head wistfully.

"Alas, they were not. I cannot walk without this stick, and I will never be able to. My father first thought that this would make me weak, that the lords who would one day follow me would not be able to respect a cripple. Then he realised that my strength was, and always had been, in my mind. He taught me, as did my grandmother, and now I rule all the lands from Tumbleton to Oldtown, from Old Oak to Horn Hill. He would be proud of me."

"I wouldn't know about a father's pride. I'm sure you know all about my relationship with my father."

Willas laughed slightly, and a smile broke out onto his face. He had a pleasant face. All of the Tyrells did. Tyrion couln't help but feel jealous. They all looked so handsome and yet he bore all these hideous scars. They were he marks of his troubles and the marks of his journeys. He deserved each and every one of them. All of them held a memory. Some of them he'd rather forget.

"Yes. Tumultuous to say the least. Still, he was your father, and you know what it means to lose one. You also know what it means to hate Lannisters. Perhaps you can make more of this message than I could."

Willas slipped a piece of parchment out of one of his pockets and passed it over the wooden top of the desk. Tyrion took it, and read aloud what was written upon it.

"We are the enemies of the lion. Join us, for like us you have reason to want to see the Lannister lion dead. The Imp and the Kingslayer must die."

Tyrion looked back up at Willas, trying his best to look more bemused than threatened.

"Whoever wrote this certainly has a flair for the dramatic. I'm surprised they didn't call me a twisted demon monkey. Where did you get this?"

"That's the thing. I'm not sure. I found it in my pockets the night before last. Someone must have slipped it in the day before. There was a feast that night, and I was seated nearby to the Crown Lords. Maybe it was one of them."

There was one name that instantly popped into Tyrion's head. Asher Hayford had already told him that there was a group of people in the Red Keep trying to kill him. Could she be one of them? Could she have tried to recruit Willas Tyrell to their cause?

"I have talked with my brothers on the matter. Neither Garlan nor Loras hold any ill will against you for the actions of your sister. We desire nothing more than for the feuding to end so that peace can reign for all."

"There is a strong chance that whoever sent you this message will try and contact you again-"

Willas raised his hand to stop Tyrion from speaking.

"I have already considered this."

Of course he had. Tyrion suspected that the Lord of Highgarden had thought long and hard about what course of action would benefit the Tyrell name the most. He couldn't be tricked by what Willas was saying and doing. Any information that he had shared was entirely because it benefitted himself.

"If I receive any personal contact then I will inform you. I do not wish for my closest friend in the city to be killed by a group of petty thugs."

Closest friend? He was laying it on a bit think. Tyrion wasn't going to rise to it, or let on that he was onto Willas. The eldest Tyrell had always been a lover of books. He was in the great game now though. Books couldn't teach you how to survive. You had to have the instincts.

"Then all I can do is thank you, and hope that the alliance between the dragon of Targaryen and rose of Tyrell is both long lasting and fruitful."

Tyrion himself got to his feet now, and Willas went to show him the door. They spoke a few more pleasantries, and then Tyrion left the company of the new Tyrell lord. He breathed a sigh of relief as he did. At least with Cersei you knew where you stood. Willas was hard to work out. Parts of him seemed so naïve, but others seemed like he had been playing the game for years.

He was an unknown.

He walked through the halls and corridors of the Red Keep ruins until he found his way back to his own chambers, which he no longer shared with Jaime. Ever since Daenerys had left he had allowed Jaime to take a new room. He needed some alone time.

Unfortunately right now was not a time that he would get it. Tyrion entered his chambers, and found Tysha waiting for him. He sighed, and went to pour himself some wine before turning around to look at her.

"What is it? What do you want?"

"Someone knows who I am."

The words were so simple, and yet they turned Tyrion's world around. What did she mean? How could anyone know who she was? Who was it?

She slammed a note down on the table. It was written on the same parchment as the note that had been given to Willas, and was scrawled in the same hand too. The content was different. This note was more threatening, suggesting that the writer would reveal Tysha's identity and past if she didn't help them to kill him.

Tyrion thought to himself for a few seconds. Did that seem like a message that Asher Hayford would write? He wasn't sure. If she had wanted him dead that badly then she could have just killed him. It wasn't as if she hadn't had the chances. Would she be willing to destroy everything that Tysha had built for herself just to get at him?

"I'm already looking into the person that is writing these notes. When I find out who it is then I'll make sure that you're protected."

Tysha nodded, and then left the room with a humph. Tyrion sighed, and poured himself another goblet of wine, before promptly drinking it all down to the dregs.

Just another day with someone else trying to kill him. What was new?


	116. Barristan IV

Barristan Selmy rode through the tents on the back of his white courser. It had been a gift to him from Daenerys. The white was for the Kingsguard cloaks that he had sworn his life to. He had lost count of the rulers that he had served. Was Daenerys the best? She certainly wasn't the worst. Joffrey Baratheon had been a twisted little boy, no more fit to rule than he was to lead armies into battle. The child of incest, or so Stannis Baratheon claimed.

Beside Barristan rode Ser Jorah and Ser Dareon. Both were capable knights. Dareon was quicker than he was strong, whilst Jorah had a vicious ruthlessness imbedded within him, and he had proved his loyalty to Daenerys twice over.

Most of the other Kingsguard knights were gathered here in the camp. The Lady Brienne of Tarth had been given watch over Edric Storm and Gendry Waters, the two bastard sons of Robert Baratheon. Humfrey Hightower was watching over Daenerys and Aegon. Hugo Bolling and Bryce Cafferen had both been left behind in King's Landing, to protect various members of the royal court that had stayed behind.

Their mission was to head into the Riverlands and force Edmure Tully into bending the knee to the Targaryen monarchs. Ravens had been sent to Riverrun, but with no response, save for apologies that the King of Rivers was indisposed and unable to respond to the invitations of surrender. Similar ravens had been sent to Runestone, but the response had been an aggressive one, calling for the Targaryen army to march on the Bloody Gate if they wanted to take the Vale.

Right now they were doing their daily morning patrol of the campsite. They were set up five leagues to the east of Harrenhal, just off the Kingsroad. By the end of the day they would arrive at the grand monstrosity of a structure, where Bonnifer Hasty, a knight from the Stormlands, was ruling as castellan. A letter had been sent to Bonnifer in advance, and he had invited the dragons to the castle.

He remembered Ser Bonnifer from when they had both been young knights. They had both served at court, and both hailed from the Stormlands, and so they had talked often. Then Bonnifer had developed a forbidden infatuation, and had been forced to leave the city to spare his own heart, and that of his lady love. The next time Barristan had seen him, the man had turned his life to service of the Seven.

Barristan looked around at the gathered troops. Half the Golden Company had come with them, under the command of Ser Tristan Rivers, who knew the Riverlands, and Lord Laswell Peake. Khal Rogero led what little remained of the Dothraki force, and Grey Worm had command over four thousand Unsullied.

As the three of them reached the central tent, they all easily dismounted their horses. This was the tent where Aegon and Daenerys held court. The two had separate private tents positioned just behind this one. Gathered outside were a mix of Unsullied and Dothraki, protecting the king and queen. Ser Humfrey would be inside.

As they approached, a young Dothraki looked to head them off. He recognised the boy as Jhogo, one of Daenerys' bloodriders. There was two of them now. The third, Aggo, had never returned to them after departing Meereen. The other, Rakharo, had been named commander of the freeriders. Jhogo rode with him.

"Ser Barristan, I bring news from Rakharo. Men seen departing Harrenhal, Ser. They head west on horseback."

If men were leaving Harrenhal to the west then they could be heading to Riverrun. Maybe Ser Bonnifer was in league with Edmure Tully and was planning some sort of treachery. That didn't seem like Bonnifer's style, but they needed to consider all possibilities in regards to this new information. The safety of the King and Queen was the most important thing.

"This is good information, Jhogo. Go back to Rakharo and tell him that he is to follow the men from afar. Find out where they are heading."

The Dothraki bloodrider nodded, and left them. Barristan closed his eyes, readying for walking into the tent. Ever since he had seen her murder Skahaz mo Kandaq, Marselen and Brown Ben Plumm he had come to worry about Daenerys. Was this the influence of Aerys' blood being in her veins? Aegon had been better, but since the woman pretending to be his sister had died, he had grown darker, more sullen, and easier to anger.

It was the boy who was in the tent when Barristan stepped in. He was conducting some sort of war council. Here with him was Jon Connington, Aegon's foremost advisor, Tristan Rivers and Laswell Peake, from the Golden Company, Ser Humfrey Hightower, one of Barristan's sworn brothers, and Grey Worm. The Unsullied commander looked awkward and out of place alongside these companions.

The Golden Company had been split up somewhat upon their departure from King's Landing. A small portion of the force was already stationed at Storm's End, to hold the castle, whilst another few hundred men was dispatched under the command of Franklyn Flowers to end any dispute over the Lordship of Cider Hall. The rest of the force had headed west, to aid Gerion and Martyn Lannister in controlling the Westerlands.

Meanwhile, the Imp Lannister had been left behind with some of his men to make sure that the Tyrells would bend the knee to the Iron Throne. Not just that, but he had been named Castellan of the Red Keep. It was a high honour for a kinslayer.

And then there was the new Grand Maester. She had been left behind too. A woman serving as a maester? It was unheard of. She was a Tyrell servant, but bore a Dornish name. She claimed to be the bastard daughter of Prince Oberyn Martell, but Barristan still didn't think that set her up for that position. It should have been reserved for a learned man. Not that he would say such a thing in front of Daenerys.

He wondered what game Willas and Garlan Tyrell were playing. They had voices on the small council now, even if it was only a young female Grand Maester. More would come if the Imp managed to persuade the Tyrells to defeat the Massey threat. They would no doubt be rewarded with more should they aid the dragon in defeating the stag.

He had been around King's Landing enough to understand when the game of thrones was being played by the people around him. The Tyrells were no fools. Garlan may be a military mind, but Willas was clever. There was a scheme there, to gather more power for the golden rose of Highgarden.

"Ser Barristan, I am glad to see you. We are planning our assault on the castle of Harrenhal. I wish to send a message to the traitor Tully of Riverrun. If we destroy the garrison there then we can show the River Lords that we are serious when we come for them."

The boy king was clearly trying to bring forward his inner Aerys more than Rhaegar. He wanted the people of Westeros to fear him. He didn't want them to betray him, like the woman who had claimed to be his sister had done. He felt that doing this would save him from any further heartbreak. He was wrong.

The people of Westeros had never loved a tyrant. They rose against Aerys. They rose against Maegor the Cruel. The River Lords had rebelled instead of following Harren the Black when the three dragons came for him. Aegon did not want to be loved, however. He wanted to be feared. It would not end well.

"Mayhaps we should send the dragons to torch the ruins just like your ancestor and namesake did three hundred years ago, your Grace. That might send the message that you are the Conqueror reborn."

Those words came from the mouth of Laswell Peake. He was a vicious and driven man, a dangerous presence to have so close to the king.

"I fear that this would be an unnecessary folly. Harrenhal is manned by little more than one hundred weary men. What if one of the dragons were to be maimed in the fighting? Would it be worth it for a victory over one hundred elderly celibates?"

Tristan Rivers was a smarter man than Laswell Peake, and the words he spoke were wise and well informed. There was no point in risking a dragon for the sake of one hundred men. No, they would be better off offering peace terms to Ser Bonnifer and allowing him to surrender. The man may be pious, but he was no fool. He would be able to see that he had no chance of holding the castle against these odds.

Connington and Grey Worm remained silent in the discussion, whilst peake and Rivers exchanged a heated glare between them. There was little love lost between these two brothers of the Golden Company.

"How about this idea, your Grace. Dispatch Ser Barristan at the head of a contingent of the Unsullied. When the Holy Hundred and their Hasty commander see the legendary men that we have fighting for our cause then they are bound to surrender."

"Do we not want bloodshed?"

Laswell had a foul look on his face now. He looked like Hightower had just slapped him twice on the cheeks. There was thunder and grey clouds in his eyes.

"What message will a peaceful surrender send to the River Lords who follow Edmure Tully so loyally into treachery? I say we send a large force against the ruins of Harrenhal and butcher all inside. We will deliver a glorious and bloody victory for the Targaryen cause."

"You have given me cause to think, my friends. We have another day's ride before we must make a decision. I shall inform you of the plan when we get closer to Harrenhal. You are dismissed, save for Ser Barristan and Lord Connington."

The other gathered men filtered out, with Laswell Peake fist, followed by Grey Worm, and then Tristan Rivers and Humfrey Hightower, who left together. Barristan found himself alone in the tent, with Lord Connington and the Targaryen king.

"I needed someone here to bare witness to this decision, Ser Barristan. My aunt clearly trusts you. Before I wedded Daenerys, I was married to the Lady Sansa of House Stark. Together we contracted Greyscale, and that led to both of us dying in King's Landing. I was reborn in the flames of a dragon, but alas, she was not. I have not been able to stop thinking of it since the day that it happened. How did we contract the disease?"

Barristan shifted on his feet awkwardly. He did not want to be here for such a discussion. Truth be told, the boy made him uncomfortable. He followed them for Daenerys, and even his faith in her had started to wain since he saw what she did to Marselen and Skahaz mo Kandaq.

"It must have been from someone who has recently visited the Sorrows on the River Rhoyne, I decided. It cannot have been Yandry or Ysilla, for they are in Dorne. Nor can it have been Lemore or haldon, for I left them behind at Griffin's Roost, and alas my friend Rolly was killed during the Taking of Storm's End. That leaves but one possibility."

Aegon turned to the fiery haired lord who was stood on the opposite side of the table. Connington couldn't meet the boy's eyes. Instead he stared at the ground. Barristan knew what the boy said had to be the truth.

"Ser Barristan, remove the gloves worn by the Master of Laws."

The command was a simple one, and Barristan stepped forward to enact it. He was safe from any infection because of the armour he wore. He grabbed the Connington lord, who put up no fight, and tore the glove from his right hand, revealing where the flesh had turned to grey stone. That was when Connington looked up.

"Aegon…"

"I feared that what I thought was the truth. You had this disease and yet you still served me without telling me. You put the lives of me, my family and my supporters at risk. I would have forgiven you had you told me, Lord Connington, but there will be no forgiveness now. Sansa died for your selfishness. I died for it, too."

Jon shook his head. Barristan thought he saw tears in the old man's eyes. This was the most feeble he had ever seen Jon Connington look.

"I did what I did for you. Always for you. In the memory of your father I wished to seat you on the Iron Throne, like you deserved."

"Treasure these memories of my father, Lord Connington, as they shall be all that you have. I hereby banish you from my service. Return to Griffin's Roost, where I will allow you to live out the rest of your days. Send Haldon and Lemore to King's Landing. That shall be your last service to me. You are relieved from your post, Lord Connington."

Jon made like he was going to protest, but then he just hanged his head and left the tent. Aegon did not speak after the man had gone, and Barristan realised that the boy king wanted to be alone. He often forgot how young Daenerys and Aegon were. They were still just children.

He slipped out, and looked for Jon Connington, but the man was nowhere to be found. Suddenly he saw the imposing figure of Brienne of Tarth. If a woman could serve on the small council as Grand Maester then why not a woman wearing the white of the Kingsguard. The world was changing, mayhaps he should change with it.

"What do you want, Lady Brienne? Should you not be watching the two bastards?"

"Yes, Lord Commander, but I saw something queer whilst I was doing so. I had to come see you, and so I asked Ser Jorah to look after the two boys, and he obliged reluctantly. The Master of Laws has fled the camp. He took a black stallion from the stablemaster and rode back the way we came. Should I follow him and bring him back?"

So Connington had already left? He had not wanted to delay the goodbyes then. He could understand that. He too had fled quickly when Joffrey Baratheon had effectively sent him into exile, stripping him from his place on the Kingsguard. He had killed men during that escape. At least Jon Connington had gone peacefully.

"Leave him, Lady Brienne. Lord Connington has left the camp on orders from King Aegon. Return to the boys and allow Ser Jorah the opportunity to rest. He has been awake too long, and will need his wits about him when on duty defending Queen Daenerys' tent later."

The woman nodded, and departed the conversation, heading back to the tent where Edric Storm and Gendry Waters were being held. He followed her, but from a distance. He did not want to talk now, but had need to submit a report of the morning' events to Daenerys. She would need to hear about the departure of Lord Connington. Her tent was just beyond the one housing the bastards.

The king and queen did not share a tent, with Daenerys suggesting that the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms needed her own privacy, as well as quarters for her handmaidens, the Dothraki girls Irri and Jhiqui, and then a Celtigar girl called Moelle, who was half the age of the other two.

He passed the tent holding the bastards and saw Ser Jorah exit after Brienne entered. The older of the two bastards was stood just outside the tent flap. Barristan met his eyes. There was a strength in the boy's eyes. Barristan recognised them as those of a young Robert Baratheon. This boy was definitely the old king's son.

He moved along, and soon found himself stood outside the Queen's tent. There were two Unsullied men stood outside. One of them was one of the ones that she had saved from Astapor. The other bore more weight on his bones, which marked him out as one of those freed from Qohor or Norvos.

He pushed past them and into the tent. What he found shocked him.

He found his queen on her hands and knees, the Andal Khal behind her, mating with her in the manner of a dog.


	117. The Princess of Dorne

Arianne Martell stood in front of the plinth which held the body of her dead father. Doran Martell looked at some peace, at least. The gout in his knee was giving him no more pain now. Maester Caleotte had bandaged him up so that you could barely tell that he had ever been ill. His clothes had been changed, of course, so the ones stained with his blood was gone. These were nicer robes, in the orange and red colours of House Martell.

They say it was a Lannister assassin that killed him. The blade used had a lion for a hilt, with ruby red eyes. It had not been a cheap blade. To throw it aside and leave it behind suggested that the murderer had great wealth. Still, something about the story sounded strange to Arianne. Which Lannister had commissioned the assassin? Cersei Lannister was dead, and neither of her brothers had held hatred for her father as far as she knew.

As she looked down on his face she couldn't help but wonder what family she had left. Her uncle had been taken in King's Landing, and then Nym and Tyene had both died there too. Qunetyn and Trystane, her two brothers, had both been killed in flames. She had thought Obara only missing, until a raven from Lord Fowler told her that the body of her eldest cousin had been discovered in the Vulture's Temple.

Even Areo Hotah was gone.

Sunspear, which had always been her home, even when her father was away at the Water Gardens, felt empty now. The guards were all new, as Ser Manfrey had taken most of the older men away to King's Landing before the destruction. She was surrounded by strangers.

"Princess Arianne? I have a raven message for you."

She turned away from her dead father then. It was Ricasso, the blind seneschal, that stood behind her. He had a whispery, raspy voice. It was the sort of voice you expected from an old blind man. His face was at least familiar, however. She was glad to see him.

"Dark wings, dark words, Ricasso. Which family member does this raven bring me news of the death of? Has Sarella fallen from the top of the High Tower? Has Loreza fallen in a pool in the Water Gardens. What do these gods hold against my house, Ricasso? Why do they curse us so?"

Ricasso licked his lips before he spoke. He always did this. Arianne was used to the sight of the man's tongue. Her father had trusted this man, although never too much. Ricasso had served House Martell and Sunspear for fifty and five years now. She was glad that he had survived.

"Your father was a driven man, Princess Arianne. He wanted the world for you and House Martell. He made his fair share of enemies by doing so, not just in the houses outside of Dorne, but amongst many of the houses within as well."

Ricasso was right, of course. There would have been many cheers for her father's death at Yronwood, had it not been the case that one of theirs had perished along with him. She had not known Archibald Yronwood, but apparently Quentyn had, and her father had intended to name him the new Captain of the Guards at Sunspear, to replace Manfrey. He had been betrothed to Allyria Dayne, who was staying in Sunspear to attend the funeral of the late Prince.

"The message does bring news of Lady Sarella, my Princess. She has been taken into the service of Daenerys and Aegon Targaryen on the will of the Conclave of the Citadel and the Lord of Highgarden, Willas Tyrell. She is to be named the new Grand Maester."

Sarella? They didn't allow women to train at the Citadel, let alone become Maesters. Now she had been chosen as the Grand Maester? She must have acquired friends in high places. Or whatever places the conclave of the Citadel held now, ever since Oldtown had been all but destroyed. She had heard they were now staying at Brightwater Keep.

Still, she should try and respond. Getting back in touch with her cousin might be of benefit. She held a position of power now, and she almost certainly had important friends. She had to start thinking about the future of House Martell and Dorne. They were vassals of the Targaryens, but an alliance with Highgarden would strengthen her hand.

She turned back to Ricasso and found that Caleotte had walked into the hall as well. The maester seemed to have gotten older since her father's death. It wasn't just Doran, but Caleotte had lost his friend, Myles, in the assassination. He had been a younger maester sent to replace him over time. Still, the maester would fulfil his duties.

"You are dismissed, Ricasso. I wish to talk with Caleotte about my father and some concerns I have about other things. Summon some of the guards and decide which of them should serve as the new Captain of the Guard. I want it to be a Martell man. We cannot be sure which houses support us and which do not."

Ricasso bowed his head, and then shuffled out of the room. The man may have been blind but he still knew all the corridors of Sunspear and the Sandship off by heart. He wouldn't stumble, or ever take a wrong turn. The man knew what he was doing.

"You have heard the news, Caleotte?"

"About the Lady Sarella? I was the first to receive the raven. I gave it to Ricasso because I had something that needed to be completed this morning. Please forgive me."

Ever since Myles had died, Caleotte had started being busier. Arianne had barely been able to get his attention most mornings. It was not good for the health being that busy at his age. That was why Myles had been sent from the Citadel. The load had needed to be lightened.

"And what are your thoughts on the matter? You offered my father good council. I see no reason that I should not listen to it as well."

Caleotte didn't respond for a few seconds. It was as if he was preparing the words in his head before opening them up to the outside world. This was a careful and fastidious man, Arianne realised. He was not hot headed like she was used to. He was calm and precise. Maybe she could do with that by her side, now that she was the Princess of Dorne.

"The Lady Sarella has earned each and every link on her chain, same as every other maester in the Seven Kingdoms. I see no reason why she should not be rewarded for this, if that is what the conclave has decided. What is left of the conclave at any rate."

Was that what the old maester actually thought, or was it just what he thought that she wanted to hear? Sarella was her cousin after all, and the man no doubt knew that Arianne cared deeply for her family. What was left of her family anyway. It was just her and her younger cousins nowadays. Father, brothers, uncle and auntie. Her cousins Obara, Nymeria and Tyene. They were all dead.

Her mother might be alive, but she was in a city thousands of leagues away, and Arianne had not seen her in many years. She had missed her at first, but not so much now. She had abandoned her and Quentyn and Trystane. She had lost any right that she had to be her mother. She may as well be dead to her. She might even be dead. Arianne didn't care.

Sarella was the eldest of her cousins left alive, and she had been named Grand Maester to Aegon and Daenerys, in the city where Nymeria and Tyene had both died. Would she ever see Sarella again? Would her cousin ever return to Dorne? Would she even care that she would be missed?

Had her mother just been the first in a long line of people to abandon her? Her uncle had gone to King's Landing and never returned. So had Nym and Tyene. Obara had gone west and would never come back to her. Quentyn had died in the far east, and Trystane had been burned alive. Her little brothers had both died horrible, horrible deaths.

And her father.

She looked down at the man that had helped to give her life. This was the man that had raised her. He had planned for the deaths of the Lannisters that had betrayed his family and murdered her aunt. Maybe he had lived to see that, but not in the way that he had expected. He had hoped for her to become the queen of the Seven Kingdoms. That would never happen.

"I also received a further raven from Runestone, my Princess. Yohn Royce has declared his independence from the Seven Kingdoms. He also claims that he has Arya Stark, and is sending her north to take her birthright in his name."

The Seven Kingdoms were breaking up more and more by the day it seemed to her. The Vale had found its independence, so had the Iron Islands. The North had, when Robb Stark had still been alive. The only people claiming the Iron Throne now were the Targaryens and Stannis Baratheon at Winterfell. Still, Dorne had always been more independent than the other regions of the kingdoms. Maybe it was time…

"I must give me some time to think about this. I will be in my chambers if any news come in that I must be informed of, Caleotte."

The maester bowed his head in acknowledgment. Arianne turned then, and swept from the hall that held nothing but death for her now. Would she ever be able to walk in there without seeing her father laid dead? She must learn to, for she was the Princess of Dorne now, and the Lady of Sunspear. She had a responsibility to her people.

Her walking took her up two flights of stairs into one of the towers of the castle. On the second floor she found the room. She entered and walked straight to the window, ignoring the two men that were already seated in the room. She looked out over the sprawling Shadow City and to where the Greenblood met the sea. It was a mess of houses and markets. Did the people bustling around out there mourn her father as she did, or did they celebrate the day that Doran Martell had died?

She had to be careful of the Dornish people. She held a responsibility to them, that much was true, but at the same time she knew that someone out there had helped with the murder of her father. She must find them and make an example out of them. Unbowed, Unbent, Unbroke. Those were the words of House Martell. She would not let these tragedies break her.

Arianne turned away from the window and looked at the two men that she had called to this secluded chamber. The first of them was her trusted consort, the Bastard of Godsgrace. Daemon had lost his father in the tragedy at King's Landing, she remembered. They were the same in that regard now.

The other man was one of her new bannermen, Deziel Dalt. His face was plain and open. His nose was prominent, and his lips pursed. There was no easy smile to him. Instead his lips were almost always curved into a judging frown. He was not unpleasant to look at, but the Knight of Lemonwood was also no painting.

When she had taken the Princess Myrcella from her rooms in Sunspear, Andrey Dalt had been one of her companions. Deziel was his elder brother. That seemed so long ago now, almost as if it was in someone else's story. She had changed so much.

She had called Deziel because she knew that he was as loyal a bannerman as you could find in Dorne, and he had always held her father in good stead. He was of a similar age to Arianne. A few years older, no more, and Lemonwood was not a long ride away. Dalt had come overnight, as soon as the raven had reached him. This had been her first chance to meet the man. She had told Daemon to bring him here.

"You have my condolences, Princess Arianne. Your father… He was a great man. I hope that you know that you have the support of Lemonwood in whatever you desire to do, as long as you should want it."

"And what if I don't, Ser?"

She turned her eyes onto the man, and saw him squint. She had to repress a laugh. Drey always did that when he was confused to. The Dalt brother liked to bicker, but they were more similar than they would tell each other. Drey had an easy smile that did not come to this man's lips.

"Tell me, Ser, who do you think benefits most from the death of my father? The Lannisters?"

Deziel's eyes flashed onto Daemon for a few seconds, but her consort was impassive, as he always was. Arianne had to restrain from giggling again. She knew it was wrong to want to laugh so soon after her father's death, but she couldn't help it.

"Do you suggest that anyone other than the Lannisters would have motive to murder your father, my Princess? I am not sure that I understand. The blade used had a lion head pommel, did it not?"

"Yes. That it did. A tad on the nose for even the Lannisters, do you not think? Had Cersei Lannister still been alive then I may have considered it, but her brothers? I hear the Imp is as smart as he is short, and the Kingslayer looked too wretched to commission an assassin when I last saw him. No, I think it far more likely that my father was killed by someone else who wanted us to believe that the Lannisters were involved."

She took a few steps closer to Deziel, and cocked her head slightly. She could see the man trying to restrain breathing in her scent. A wicked smile crossed her lips.

"Would you know anything about that, Ser?"

Deziel Dalt spluttered at that. Of course, she did not suspect that he was responsible for her father dying, but it was all part of the act and the game that had to be played. She was testing the man, of course, to see if he did know anything.

"I loved your father, my Princess. He was a noble and generous soul. He-"

"He sent your brother into exile in Norvos, did he not? Surely that would be enough of a reason to put a knife in his belly?"

Deziel vigorously shook his head at that accusation.

"I can assure you, my Princess. I held nothing but love and admiration for your father. He was a fine man and he led Dorne well. Ask Maester Caleotte. He knows how loyal I was."

She hadn't expected that. What did Caleotte know of the loyalty of her father's bannermen? Had her father trusted him enough to share that sort of information with him?

"You have convinced me already, Ser. I must forgive you for ever doubting your honour. Still, you must understand that I desired to check before bringing you into my full confidence. I have another matter to discuss with you first, however."

She turned back to the window and took a few steps away from the knight. She looked out at the glimmering water in the distance. The sea.

"I have been told that House Toland lost most of its fleet in the destruction of the capital. Unfortunately that has left some Dornishmen stranded in King's Landing. I would request that you send three of your personal ships up the Narrow Sea to retrieve Ser Garin of the Greenblood, as well as Ser Gerris Drinkwater. I will take this action as further proof of your loyalty."

Arianne knew that it was a risky move to make these demands of Ser Deziel. After all, she needed his support in find9ing her father's murderer. Still, the fewer Dornishmen in the hands of the Targaryen dragon the better…

"It shall be done, my Princess. I shall write a raven as soon as I return to my chambers."

She turned, a smile on her face. She cared little for this Gerris Drinkwater, but it would be good to see Garin again. To think that the mischievous boy she had grown up with was a knight now.

"Hand the letter to Maester Caleotte himself. He will see that the news gets sent."

She seated herself on the edge of the bed, indicating that Deziel should sit also. He did, on the bed opposite her. Daemon stayed stood near the door. He was a reminder to Deziel that it was best not to lie to her in these scenarios.

"I know that you are loyal to me and my father's legacy, Sir, but I must ask if you have heard of any risings against my house. I have sent ravens to all my father's strongest bannermen, but only Lord Fowler and the new Lord Gargalen have offered to speak their oaths to me once more. Yronwood, Uller, Dayne, Jordayne, Wyl, Vaith. They all ignore my summons."

Deziel stroked his clean shaven jaw at that question. That was something else that Drey tended to do when something had particularly puzzled him.

"There was never any love lost between your father and Lord Yronwood. Wyl is bannerman to Yronwood, so he will like as not follow his liege."

Of course Arianne knew all this, but if Lord Yronwood had killed her father then why also kill the Yronwood guard? No, she suspected that Yronwood had no knowledge of this particular move against House Martell.

"Harmen Uller is more mad than most Ullers, and that is saying something. I doubt he would have been able to keep something like this under wraps."

Again, Arianne had thought the same. Harmen Uller was the father of Ellaria Sand, who had been Oberyn's paramour. He had wanted justice for Arianne's uncle. She could well see the Hellholt moving against Doran, but this seemed too cloak and dagger for Lord Uller, who was not one to keep his emotions hidden.

"And what of House Dayne?"

She propped herself up and leant forward, her hands meeting in a clasp as she leant her elbows on her knees. Would Ser Deziel reach the same conclusion that she had.

"Lord Dayne is a young boy. He would not have moved against your father. His aunt, however… Allyria ran Starfall for much of the boy's life. She would definitely be capable of orchestrating such a thing."

"I agree, Ser. Allyria Dayne had the means to method, and has been in Sunspear for some time. What is lacking for me is a motive behind all this. That is what I must discover."

Ser Daemon moved his hand to the hilt of his sword. Arianne turned to him. Had he seen something that she had not.

"Should I move to seize the suspect, my Princess?"

She thought for a few seconds. Allyria had been playing this game a lot longer than she had. Her father had often called her hot headed and said that it would like as not be her end. She must learn from what had befallen him.

"No, Ser Daemon. I have my council. Let us give it some time before we move against the Lady Allyria. Rest assured, Sers, that we are moving against her."

Arianne leaned back on the bed, steel in her eyes.

"The bitch killed my father."


	118. The Kraken in Chains

The cold saltwater lapped at the feet of Aeron Damphair as what was left of the Red Oarsman dragged him from the rowing boat. The touch of the water on his skin almost felt like relief, until the salt started to spill into his cuts and wounds. He would have called out in pain, but doing so would have just caused the fiery haired minion to beat him.

The man had lost his soul to Euron in the same way that Lucas Codd had. There was naught left of this man that had once been amongst the most feared fighters in the Iron Islands. He had been too weak.

Euron had taken him for his own.

The Ironborn had docked off the coast of the North the night before, but it was only now that it was dawn that they landed. First had gone the Wynch, Harlaw and Drumm men. Euron now came with those of Blacktyde and Botley that still followed him, plus the ships that they had taken from Oldtown and the Shield Islands. Already there was a large encampment growing on the North's Stony Shore.

The Ironborn did not fare well on land. Aeron knew that and so did his brother. So why was Euron bringing them into opposition with Stannis Baratheon, who held Winterfell.

Aeron remembered a time when he had been whole. He remembered when he had reaved these very shores with his eldest brother's son, Theon. The boy had been weak and had been taken in by the wicked ways of the Greenlanders. He had lost the Old Way. He had thought himself capable of taking and holding Winterfell, but he had failed, and Theon had suffered for it.

The camp here was larger than anything Balon would ever have allowed Theon to control. There were grand tents set up with benches and fires. There were targets interspersed out, some with axes buried deep.

The Ironborn were readying for war.

He saw the banners of Wynch and Harlaw fly over many of those tents, but most bore the cruel sigil of the Crow's Eye, Aeron's elder brother. Euron was a madman. He believed himself the servant of the gods, the cruel gods of the storm and the cloud. He called himself the godliest man in the world, but he was wrong. He was the tool of some power hungry maniac.

Euron was nothing.

Aeron couldn't say that out loud of course, as Euron would beat him if he did. Or at the very least he would call on the Red Oarsman or Lucas Codd to do it. He didn't like being questioned, and he liked being insulted even less. Euron had acts that he played for the crowd, but his anger was never far from the surface.

He had always resented Balon for being the elder son of their father, Quellon Greyjoy. He had always resented Victarion, for being stronger, and Urrigon, for being handsome. Even Robin, who had been frail and weak, Euron had resented, for Robin had been their father's favourite. Aeron was the only brother that Euron had never resented. He had always looked down on him. And rightly so.

A splash of saltwater hit Aeron in the mouth as he thought, and the wet salty taste reminded Aeron of Euron's seed. He repulsed backwards at the thought. The taste of the saltwater reminded him of the days when he had used to bathe in it. When he had purified those that desired purifying in that very water, in the name of the Drowned God. He had never lost a soul to the waters. Not until he had lost himself to Euron.

His was the first soul that he had lost to the storm of the oceans, but the storm in question was his brother, not the Drowned God.

Malora Hightower, who had once been the Mad Maid of Oldtown, was waiting for him on the dry beside her were Left Hand Lucas Codd, with those queer, dead eyes, and Falia Flowers, who was the demented bastard of some southron lord that Euron had taken as a salt wife. What he had done to her,,, There was little human left in this girl. Whatever she had been before was gone now.

"The seas… The seas rise and with them comes the god himself… The waves… The dead… The winter storms… The crow calls and the servant follows. The crow, the bastard and the bloody mummer!"

As she spoke that last word, a hand came through the air and clapped the bastard around the back of the head. The girl fell forward, and Aeron realised the man behind the slap was Rogen Saltbeard, a fierce looking captain who had formerly served his brother, Victarion, in the Iron Fleet.

Saltbeard was a captain in his fifties, with a long greying beard, that was made of matted, curling hair. There were two wrinkles underneath his eyes, and the skin on his cheeks sagged. The man was known for his temper. He was feared for it.

Next to Saltbeard stood a few more men. He saw clever old Rodrik Harlaw, and his cousins Boremund, Hotho and Harras. He saw young Symond Botley, who was the new Lord of Lordsport. The Botleys had mostly supported Asha, but two of them had stayed behind when Aeron's niece fled. The youngest Botley was here also, but Aeron could not see him. There were others. Little Lenwood Tawney and Bralon Blacktyde. Lord Goodbrother and his three sons. Captains every single one of them. They were gathered here, under Euron's banner.

"Silence, girl. Your ramblings are best kept to yourself, else you want me to give you a harder smack the next time."

Aeron was thrown down onto his hands and knees on the hard ground of the North. There had been snow here before, but it had been cleared so that Euron's fleet could disembark. The ground was still frozen, and it was hard and rough on Aeron's knees. He felt blood come forward from the scrape, but soon he was dragged to his feet. He found that it was the Red Oarsman at his back.

This was his first time to look around at their surroundings. The land was bleak and grey, with dark clouds filling the skies with dread. A peak rose to the south, rocky and stubborn amongst the flat landscape. At the top was a spire of rocks, pointing up to the heavens like a crone's finger. There was something accusatory about the way that it pointed, as if it was a hand trying to curse the gods of these green lands.

He saw banners rising above the tents gathered upon the shore. They bore the sigils of Botley, Goodbrother, Wynch and Tawney, amongst others. The most of them bore the intimidating eye that was placed upon the banners of his brother. They sat atop the camp in sets of three, looking out over the camp, looking out over the people. That was his brother. He was always watching. Always.

Aeron couldn't see his brother anywhere. He knew that Euron had already come ashore, upon one of the first ships. He had been with Harlaw, as well as several of the crew of the Silence. Yet here was the Reader, and gone was Euron.

"And what exactly is it that we are waiting for?"

He heard Lord Goodbrother whisper the words to Lenwood Tawney. He sounded impatient, but the words were little more than a whisper. Still, if Aeron could hear him…

"Silence yourself, Goodbrother. King Euron will deal with you when he has convened with the Drowned God. Now leave. Go to Dunstan Drumm and make sure the finishing touches are on the camp. King Euron wants walls sturdy enough that no-one will be able to get in. We need our security."

Rogen was gruff with his method of speaking, and Aeron thought him about to complain about the captain's tone, but there was no such remarks, and Gorold and his sons left the group, and departed into the camp. The gathered captains did not seem tremendously disappointed to see him going. There had never been much love between Gorold Goodbrother and the Reader of Harlaw.

"I was called here to meet with the Crow's Eye. Not stand around waiting for him to decide when he desires to talk with us. Could you at least tell me where he is?"

Rogen responded to the Reader's request with a single gesture. He raise his arm and pointed a wisened finger to the rocky peak in the distance. As he did, rain started to fall from the sky. It was a light drizzle, but when Aeron tasted the drops fall on his tongue he could swear that it was salt water falling from the sky.

"It is a sign from the Drowned God. Our king has gone to the mountain to pray and he gives us saltwater from the sky. Our god has shown us his favour. What say you, Damphair?"

The name had a mocking sting to it now. It had once been given to him because of his long matted beard and his habit of being clothed in saltwater. Now his hair had gone, removed by Euron to leave him naked of all his pride. It was just his brother's captains who called him Damphair now, and there was always a biting tone to the words.

He wanted to scream his objection to the sign. Rain was not the dominion of the Drowned God of the seas, but of his sworn enemy, the Storm God of the skies, who ruled over thunder, cloud and lightning. Rain was his rule, and his tool. He commanded it. If this saltwater was a sign then it was from him, not the Drowned God.

"It is a sign. My brother has delivered us a sign."

"Sign… Sign… Sign of winter and crows… Sign of blood and death… The sea rises, and with it comes-"

There was a harsh sound as Rogen's outstretched palm met with the face of Falia Flowers, sending her flying to her knees and whimpering on the floor.

"Stupid girl. I told you to shut your whore mouth."

Harras and Tawney looked at the girl as if they wanted to come forward and help. Both of the men were strong warriors, and feared for their own reasons. Tawney would play the fiddle whenever he went into battle, and oft it was the last tune a man would hear. Harras was a knight who had been close friends with his nephew, Balon's son Rodrik. He bore the Valyrian Steel sword Nightfall as a final gift from Rodrik, and he was truly skilled with the blade.

But none of them came forward. Instead they all stood by in a huddle, watching the much feared chieftain standing over the girl. ~Instead it was another man that came forward. He wore a jerkin of black and a cloak of red. There was an eyepatch covering his bad eye from view. Euron Greyjoy cradled Falia Flowers, helping her to her feet. He didn't direct any words to Rogen, and instead turned to the gathered captains.

"Are you all too craven to come forward and aid my salt wife, my friends? Are you not captains of the Iron Islands? Does Rogen scare you so much?"

Those questions were left unanswered by the gathered captains. Aeron suspected that was the point. Euron hadn't desired an answer from any of them. He had desired for them to know his presence, not to respond to it. Aeron's brother turned to one of the captains in particular, Symond Botley.

"I am glad to see your ship flying under my banner, Lord Symond. You and your uncles and brothers supported my beloved niece when she returned to my islands, did you not?"

"Aye, that we did. When she heard of your fleet coming, she fled with my brothers and uncles. I did not. I chose to stay behind, for I knew that a true servant of the Drowned God would show me mercy for my mistakes and my sins."

Euron rose from his kneeling position and walked over to stand in front of Symond. There was a cocky way behind his way of walking, but it was different to usual. He had come down from the peak, and there was something oddly different about him now. There was less of an arrogance about his walking, and more uncertainty in his voice. None of the others would be able to pick up on it, but Aeron knew his brother.

"Mercy is a fine thing, and a true man knows when to show it. Were you too craven to follow your oaths to my niece? If so, why should I show you mercy, and why shouldn't I just execute you now?"

"Your niece fled when she heard of your return, her tail between her legs. I stayed. Does that make me the craven?"

Euron didn't talk for a few seconds. His response was measured and well thought out. That in itself was unusual. He was most often quick of wit.

"You speak well, Botley. My mercy is well deserved. Go get ten of your finest men and send them to man the walls over the night."

As Symond Botley left Euron turned to the other gathered captains. There was a thin smile on his brother's face. Aeron disliked it. He knew that smile, and it meant that Euron was about to reveal something that he had kept hidden. Mayhaps not all of these captains would leave this conversation alive.

"Isn't mercy a fine thing, my friends. Many men beg for it at least once in their life, yet few are the men who decide whether it is bestowed or not. I am one of those men, and I intend to show you all a great mercy today."

Some of the captains shuffled. Euron took slow and gradual steps, his eyes trained on Bralon Blacktyde, who stood stock still, unblinking.

"Did you think that I wouldn't find out what you were planning on the Arbor? Your little revolution to overthrow me and replace me with Asha? I know, brothers. Do you know how long it took me to find out? Not half an hour after your little meeting was done and one of you was telling me everything."

"Saltcliffe."

Aeron heard the name muttered under the breath of Lenwood Tawney. Euron turned his attention off Blacktyde and on to the feared fiddler. The smile hadn't left his brother's lips.

"You think so? No, it wasn't Saltcliffe. It was another. Any more guesses?"

He looked around the group, challenging them to speak. His eyes passed over Harras and Boremund Harlaw, over Maron Volmark, who Aeron had not seen before, over Blacktyde and Tawney. Finally they settled on Rodrik Harlaw himself.

"What about you, Reader? Any suggestions as to who the traitor might be?"

Rodrik did not speak any words, but he hung his head in shame. Blacktyde's nostrils flared, and he looked as if he was about to step forward to pick some form of fight. Euron put his hand up to stop him.

"You may feel anger in your hearts, my friends, but know this. Harlaw saved your lives when he told me, for he asked me to show mercy. Had I found out some other way, and I would have found out, I would have had you all killed where you stood, and your families destroyed too. But I am a kind man at heart, and mercy is what I have shown. You have all been spared. On one condition."

Euron delayed what he was about to say. Aeron knew that tactic of his brother's. He loved the silence right before he said something ominous. He knew what fear it could instil into even the hardest of men.

"Pray with me."

He raised his finger and pointed to the peak that Aeron had spotted before. There was a crash of lightning as he did, and Euron's shadow loomed over all of them in the sudden flash of light, enveloping them in his evil darkness.

The Read Oarsman picked him up by the scruff of his shirt and pushed him forward. Aeron started to traipse along with the rest of the group. Rodrik Harlaw walked separately from the rest of the group. Hotho Harlaw walked with Rogen, whilst Bralon Blacktyde and Lenwood Tawney were talking to one another in hushed whispers. Left Hand Lucas Codd was walking Malora Hightower and Falia Flowers near the front of the party.

Suddenly Aeron felt an arm envelop him around his shoulder. He winced, despite the fact there was no pain. He had got so used to physical contact equating to some sort of physical pain. When he looked to his right, he realised that it was Euron who was doing it.

Who else would it be?

"You know what, Aeron? That Botley boy has got me thinking. Mercy is a fantastic thing is it not? I must be the most merciful man in this world. I spared you and Victarion despite the fact that you opposed me. I spared these men we are surrounded by. I spared Goodbrother and Tawney. The gods will surely favour me for my mercy."

Aeron wasn't sure how he was expected to respond to that. Was Euron even expecting a response, or was this more of the games that his brother liked to play?

"I murdered two of our brothers, Aeron. I killed Harlon. I pinched his nose shut so that he couldn't breathe, for his mouth was stone. I threw little Robin from a window to see if he could fly. He couldn't."

Was this him setting up for telling Aeron that he was going to kill him too? They were the last sons of Lord Quellon Greyjoy left. There were only four Greyjoys left alive now. Maybe fewer. Theon and Asha…

"And yet those deaths did not bring me happiness, brother. Neither did raping you or Urrigon. I sought what it was that I thought I wanted, that I needed, but it could not be found. Not until I saw the light. I must… I must clear my conscience of what must happen next, brother."

Euron stppped him walking then, and turned him around so that they were looking at one another. Aeron saw something in his brother that he had never seen before. Was that fear in his brother's one visible eye? Was that humanity?

"There is more to life than serving a distant god, brother. I do what must be done, but it weighs heavy on my shoulders. Tell me, brother, if you knew that your Drowned God needed you to do something dreadful would you do it?"

"I- I-"

He was unsure what answer he should give. He had never had Euron ask for his counsel like this. Balon had desired his opinion on things at times. Euron had never valued the opinion of any man save for himself.

"The will of a god cannot be denied. If he calls to you then you must answer, brother. No matter the cost."

Euron nodded, and then silently started walking back towards the hill. The Red Oarsman looked down at Aeron with those cold, dead eyes, and so he turned and started walking after his brother. What had that been about? What could possibly be so bad that even Euron Greyjoy was doubting his ability to complete it? What was so bad that it gave Euron some humanity?

At the top of the peak was a small plateau that looked out over the camp below them, and the swirling sea beyond that. The Ironborn longships were clearly being buffeted by the wind. The wind even sounded as if it was carrying howled screams. The voices of dead Northerners that the Ironborn had slaughtered on these shores for generations.

Aeron shuddered.

The Red Oarsman forced the gathered captains down to their knees. Aeron stood in one corner of the plateau. There was only one way down, and the Red Oarsman and Lucas Codd was guarding it. Malora and Falia were stood at the opposite side to Aeron. Euron stood at the edge of the plateau, looking out on the sea. Rogen was a few steps behind him, his hand on his belt.

"It is time. Step forward, Rogen."

Euron turned to the old Ironborn warrior, who unsheathed the dagger that he wore at his hip. Euron went to his knees and seemed to scrape some dirt from the ground. When he rose to his feet something about him had changed. He stood taller. His nimble hands took the dagger from Rogen, and twisted it around in his fingers.

Suddenly the old captain stumbled back, and Aeron realised that the b;ade was buried in the man's stomach. There was a look of shock on Rogen's face, as he too fell to his knees. The blood pouring from the wound stained the grey dirt of the ground, and soon Rogen was laid on his side, his guts on the floor, his eyes lifeless.

And then it began.

What had been the scream of ghosts on the wind before seemed to change. Now it was the screams of men. Aeron's eyes followed the wind out to sea, where the longships were now being rocked by more than the wind. He saw two of them start to splinter under some form of unknown pressure, and another was pulled onto its side. It was Thunderer. Aeron recognised it from this far. The Drumm men hadn't come ashore yet, so Lord Dunstan was likely still on board. A good captain went down with his ship.

Five more ships were pulled down below the waves. When Aeron quinted he thought he could see things climbing out from the water, onto the hull of one of the ships. Two of the captains tried to escape whatever it was that was attacking them. One of them, flying the flag of Wynch, ran ashore. The other made it out to sea but was eventually pulled down.

And then the screams started to come from nearer. Aeron looked down to the shore, and saw figures walking out of the sea. He couldn't make them out well from here, but they were shambling and stumbling, and they just came marching out of the depths. Was this the army of the Drowned God, marching from his watery halls.

Then the figures started to run, and he heard the song of steel on steel, steel on leather, steel on flesh.

Rain fell down on them now, heavier and heavier. Aeron looked to Euron, who's hair was flattened down. His brother looked out over the carnage that happened before him. No laugh passed his lips. He was silent, the discarded body of Rogen Saltbeard. It didn't take long before the screams died down to naught but whimpers and the occasional call for mercy.

Euron once again went down to one knee, to feel the dirt.

"Come forward, brother mine."

Aeron gulped, but he did as his brother commanded. He had encouraged Euron to do this. He could have told him not to. What had he done?

Euron was back on his feet now. He gazed out over the carnage that had occurred before them. There was no smile on his face. He was as sombre as Aeron had ever known him. There was no quip to be made here. This place was not a battlefield. It was a graveyard.

He looked down at what was below them, and was taken aback by what he saw.

Below them was a hoard of creatures that looked human but simply couldn't be. Many of them had skin, but not all of them. Some were simply bones. Those with skin were bloated and blotchy, with space where their eyes should be. Many of them had coral, or seaweed growing out of them.

And they all looked up at them. No, they looked up at Euron.

"This is what I have done, brother mine. This is what you gave me the willpower to do?"

Aeron's eyes were drawn to what remained of the camp. It was littered with discarded bodies of the Ironborn who had come to land. Out there somewhere was Lord Goodbrother, who had been the first to tell Aeron of Balon's death, and young Lord Botley. Was that what Euron's mercy was? Simply delaying the inevitable death?

Yet the impossible was happening. Even before Aeron's own eyes he could see the dead men that had been laid there before rising to their feet. The sight almost made him vomit, and he may have done, had he been properly fed. This had been Euron's plan? To butcher the army of the Ironborn to do this? To make what? An army of the dead?

"You monster!"

The words echoed out around the silent graveyard. The Greyjoy brothers turned, and found Bralon Blacktyde standing. The captain was breathing heavily, and let out a roar of rage as he charged forward at Euron. He was all rage though. Euron was too clever to die here. Did Bralon not realise that?

Yet Euron allowed Bralon to get closer and closer, and suddenly he was right on top of them, and then he was stumbling and falling forward. The Blacktyde man hit Aeron, and he fell backwards, stumbling over the edge of the cliff.

They fell together. They fell down, down, down. They fell into the waited masses of the hungry dead. But they fell together.


	119. Theon VII

Theon felt the touch of her slender, soft fingers against his skin. They were so different from the fingers that he was used to touching him. He looked up at her pleasant face. The scars had gone and her mouth was a smile. Despite this, there was still fear in her eyes, but he knew that fear.

It was fear of Ramsay. It was the fear of what he might do to her if he ever found out that she had been happy without him. It was the thought of his knives and his smile as the skin was peeled away from the flesh and bone. She had suffered at Ramsay's hand just as much as he had. Theon had been made into Reek, but she had been made into Arya Stark.

Jeyne Poole's hands washed him, her fingers brushing against his chest. The water was cold against his skin, but her touch sent a fire through him. One of her fingers caught his nipple, and he squirmed slightly from the touch. There had been times where he had been washed by Ramsay, and that would mean more pain. This was better. Her touch was softer and it meant pleasure.

He was happy with her. It had been some time since he had been able to say that he was happy.

He only had a few seconds to enjoy that little moment of perfection before all the shit that was happening washed back over him. He was here at Winterfell, with Stannis Baratheon. The red woman was looking for something underneath the castle, something dark and dangerous. Meanwhile, Eddard Stark's youngest son, Rickon, had been murdered, and only Theon and the red woman knew the culprit.

That was Lord Godry Farring, who had the ear of King Stannis. The man was brass and arrogant, but he had the strength to back it up. He was a man that should be feared, and Theon wasn't sure what to do with this newfound information. Stannis deserved to know the truth, but the alliance between the Northerners and Southrons was weak enough as it was. If the men of the North found out that a southern knight had murdered their little lord… Not even the Old Gods would be able to calm them.

They might even kill Stannis, or try too, at least.

No, he had to find some other way to deal with the situation. Was it even his situation to deal with? He had cared about the little Stark boy, but he had never been as close with Bran and Rickon as he had been with Robb. They were hardly like brothers to him.

Still, he felt guilt about the plight of the boy. It had been he that betrayed Robb and took Winterfell. It had been he that faked the boy's deaths and forced them into the wild. The fall of House Stark was his fault. All because he betrayed his brother. He would never be free of that, even if he swore his life to Stannis Baratheon. Even if he tried to restore the Starks to their ancestral home. His ghosts would never escape him.

He shivered slightly at the thought of all their eyes looking down at him, judging him for his sins. They would never stop judging him. It would always be like this.

"Are you okay, Theon?"

Jeyne's sorrowful eyes were looking down at him, full of worry. Even now, after all that she had been through, she still cared enough to ask. Theon remembered her as being a popular child, who had been cruel to the younger Stark girl. Little girls were like that, though. She had grown into being a caring woman now. Maybe hardships like hers helped shape people into being good and not bad. Was that how his redemption would work?

"Yes, I- I just don't like being here. It feels like home, but I lost all right to call it that when I betrayed Robb and Lord Stark."

Jeyne closed her eyes and let out a deep breath. When she opened them, Theon spotted tear droplets forming at the bottom of her eyes. Had he said something that upset her? He wanted to wipe them away. He had never been the honourable man that Lord Stark had wanted to raise, but for her he could change. For her he could redeem himself.

"I see the ghosts too, Theon. I can't sleep at night without thinking of my father tucking me in and kissing my forehead. I can't pick up a needle without thinking of Septa Mordane and Sansa. This place is haunted, Theon, but not for everyone else. Just for us. There is nothing that we can do beyond trying to move on from all the horrors we have seen."

"But then what do I do of the horrors that I have committed? I have killed innocent men, Jeyne. I'm not a good man. I've never been a good man. Those sins of my past will constantly define who I am. I will never escape them."

Jeyne didn't respond straight away. Instead she ran her hand down his chest. Once he had been so skinny that his ribs would have barely been covered by skin. He was better now, but he still didn't like being topless like this. Too many reminders of what Ramsay Bolton had done to him.

"Did you know that me and Sansa used to watch you when you trained at the bow? The strength in your arms as you pulled the string… I held feelings for you then, Theon, but Sansa told me of all the things that you did with girls around the castle. I felt like a fool. I don't feel such a fool now, for you are the only thing tying me to this life. What I have been through… The knowledge that I have you almost makes the memory of that bearable."

Theon hesitated for a few moments. He looked up into the sad, sorrowful eyes of the girl. Did she truly mean everything that she had just said? He had not known that they used to watch. He was glad that he hadn't, for that would have spoiled this moment.

He moved his lips up to hers, and kissed her tenderly for only a few seconds. She recoiled slightly at first, and so he stopped, but then she pushed him down and they shared their second kiss. Her lips were ravenous, and he found himself meeting her expectations. For more than a minutes they explored each other's mouths, before eventually she pulled away. He realised that he was panting. Why was that?

"I'm sorry, I- The only other man I've been with is Ramsay, and-"

Tears came to her eyes, and Theon this time did move his fingers to nimbly wipe them away. He cupped her cheek, and rubbed his thumb against her soft skin. He liked the way that it felt. It felt right.

"I understand, Jeyne. I- I won't force you, as long as you know that kiss meant everything to me. There was a time when it might not have, but I'm not the boy that I was. You are not just another girl. I will wait for you."

She smiled then. That was unusual. It was rare that a smile passed on to her sweet lips. Her smile made him smile, and then she giggled, which left him taken aback.

"You always did have a nice smile, Theon Greyjoy."

Another quick kiss, and then Jeyne rose from her seat. The sombre and sad look was back on her face, but Theon couldn't help but notice that there was a bit more of a glimmer in her eyes now. He hoped that he could keep it that way. He was glad that she was happy,

"I have to go to the Godswood. Will you be fine alone here until I return?"

He grabbed her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze as he looked up at her.

"As long as you promise to not be gone too long. Do you?"

"I do."

She gently squeezed his hand back, and then let it drop, before moving to the door. There was one last lingering look, and then she was gone, out into the corridors of Winterfell. Theon sighed, and then rolled onto his back. He hadn't been sleeping much recently, but he might as well try seen as that Jeyne was gone.

The darkness that came when he closed his eyes was soon replaced with the usual images as he drifted off into a sleep.

He was in the Winterfell courtyard, watching the younger version of himself training with Robb and the bastard Jon Snow. Rodrik Cassell was watching over them, with Lord Stark stood at a window above them. The slow of wit stableboy, Hodor, crashing around near the lichyard. Rodrik had them training in two on one scenarios. It was Theon and Robb trying to take down Jon. Robb launched a frontal assault whilst Theon, unnoticed by Jon, who was occupied, crept up behind and struck.

Jon was caught out, and collapsed to the floor. Robb let out a triumphant whoop, and threw his sword to the ground. Jon laughed as he took his brother's offered hand. Theon saw himself grinning, and he wanted to shout at himself. He wanted to tell himself all the things that he needed to change. He wanted to tell himself not to betray Robb, but this was just a memory.

The past was done and there was no way that he could change it. There was no way that he could redeem himself.

Then he dreamt of another memory. He was a boy of nine sat in the courtyard of Pyke. Theon barely recognised himself. His face was pudgy, and his lips pursed in a stubborn face. He was glaring at some insignificant rock on the ground. Stood over him were two figures, his brothers, Rodrik and Maron.

Rodrik was a hulking figure, the embodiment of all that their father had wanted in a son. He was a warrior and a captain, in the model of their uncle Victarion. He held in his hand the twisted black coloured steel of the Valyrian sword Nightfall. He showing the blade to Maron, who was nodding with approval.

Theon's other brother was larger of waist, with straggly black hair. He had the fuzz of a beard upon his chin, but nothing had properly grown there. It was a weak attempt at looking more like a man than he did without it. His eyes were too far apart, and his nose bulbous, not thin and pointed.

"They say that Dalton Greyjoy took the sword for our house. There was a truly great Greyjoy. Father will be just like him when he takes our independence, and it shall be me wielding the family sword."

"He gave you it?"

Maron tried to mask the awe in his voice, but he failed.

"No. I took it. Father said that if I could defeat Lords Wynch and Botley, as well as Uncle Dagmer at the same time, then I could claim it as my own. I shall use it when I lead our ships into battle."

"No fair. I want sword."

Rodrik let out a cruel laugh at Theon's childish words. Rodrik had a very cruel laugh. It was a throaty laugh that sounded like that of a crow. Maron's was more of a quiet snigger.

"That will never happen, little brother. This sword is the birthright of a proper man, not a weak little boy like you."

Rodrik's cruel words were the last thing Theon heard of that vision. Soon his home of Pyke had disappeared, just as the courtyard of Winterfell had done. Which castle was truly his home? The one where he had been born, or the one where he had grown up and learned all the lessons about how to be a proper man. Eddard Stark had been more of a father to him than Balon Greyjoy. And yet he had betrayed Lord Stark for his more hated father.

Suddenly he was presented with a cruel battlefield. There were tents erected, but they were left desolate and destroyed. The campsite was littered with the dead. Some were laid down, whilst others were stood. Theon had heard Arthor Karstark and Marlon Manderly talk about the walking dead men, but this was the first time he had seen them himself.

The one nearest to him had skin the colour of curdled milk, and its eyes were bloodshot and empty. When it opened its mouth, he saw that what teeth remained were rotting and decaying. He let out a shudder. The creature looked like what he might have become had Ramsay had his way with him.

The dead figures shambled around, but one person moved with a purpose. Theon spotted the man stride through the camp. He had a flowing cloak of black fabric, and an eyepatch covered one of his eyes. His hair was dark and slicked down. There was no smile on this man's face.

Theon followed him as he walked through the camp. He could tell that this man was important, but he wasn't sure how or why.

The man stopped after a few minutes of walking, right in front of one of the dead men. This man was in better condition than the other. He was old, with whisps of grey hair on his head, and spots on his wrinkled skin. Half his head was covered in dried blood, from a wound on the right side of his head, where his ear had been cut away. The corpse wore a jerkin of red, with a silver trim. There was a tattered cloak on his back, and at his side was strapped a sword.

It was for the blade that the man went. He pulled the sheate away, and removed the sword from its scabbard. The blade that he found had the colour red folded into the sharp metal.

This blade was Valyrian steel.


	120. Arthor IX

Arthor Karstark was woken from his slumber by a tug at his covers. He woke his eyes hoping to see Wylla Manderly in his chambers, but instead found that it was his quire, Big Walder Frey, who had pulled his covers back. The boy was already dressed in whatever foul smelling rags he had been able to find for himself in the wardrobes of Winterfell. The shirt he was wearing now had formerly born the flayed man of Bolton, but the boy had crudely sewn the twin towers of Frey over it.

For most of the Northern Lords there wasn't much improvement there. The Freys had killed just as many Northmen as the Boltons. Maybe more. It was not as if the boy himself had killed Robb Stark though.

"You have been summoned by King Stannis, Ser. He is holding an audience in his solar. I came as soon as I could, but I saw Maege Mormont and Robett Glover hurrying up before I could get here."

Arthor grumbled as he pulled himself out of bed. The sheets were not comfortable, but he would rather be there, cloaked in his dreams of the Manderly girl, than awake and dressed in this white cloak, listening to the moanings and bickerings of the Northerners and the Southrons.

Walder had already readied his armour and cloak, and so he pulled them on. The metal felt extra heavy this morning, but it was the cloak which weighed him down. The oaths that he had sworn when he took this were the heaviest. Could he break them? Could he do that big a disservice to the man that he called the one true king of the Seven Kingdoms? Every one of his waking minutes was now spent imagining what his life could be like had he not taken the oath.

Then Wylla could have been his without any problem.

"Does Wyman Manderly rouse himself, boy? The fat lord would need more time than the most of us to get to the solar. Never mind. See that there is some bread and water brought here for my return. I would break my fast after I am done with this."

The boy nodded and scurried out. Arthor waited a few seconds, and then strode out of his room, into the chill air of the Winterfell courtyard.

The brothers of Stannis Baratheon's Kingsguard had all been allocated small rooms at the side of the courtyard, in a building that ran along the side of the wall. This had been where the old Winterfell guardsmen had slept when not on duty. There were still plenty of ghosts that haunted these halls. Would Stannis Baratheon's presence here help put those spirits to rest, Arthor wondered.

He saw that Ser Desmond Grell, one of his other sworn brothers, had just roused himself also. The old knight had just stepped out of his chambers, accompanied by rotund Robin Ryger. Grell shot him a curt nod, and Arthor grunted a short reply, before striding off towards the steps that would lead him to the Lord's Solar.

The courtyard of Winterfell was oddly quiet. There would have been a time when it had been busy here, with smith working with his tools and boys playing at arms under the tutelage of Rodrik Cassell. Now there was just silence. That was to be expected. Ghosts liked silence.

He passed the hidden entrance to the Winterfell crypts, and rose two flights of stairs, before turning left onto a corridor with a number of rooms on either side. Here was where Stannis' most trusted advisors slept. He passed the rooms for Godry Farring and Robin Peasebury, whose place here was merely a courtesy, as well as those of the red woman and Theon Greyjoy.

He opened the door at the end of the solar and entered the room. There were nine others already gathered. Arthor took his place in the corner and surveyed the others that had been summoned to offer their counsel to King Stannis.

The Frey boy had been right when he said that Robett Glover and Maege Mormont had been seen running to the meeting. The new Lord of Deepwood Motte had bags under his eyes, as if he had been struggling for the solace of sleep, and the Lady of Bear Island, if one could call her a lady, had a gruffer look than even she was used to displaying.

Sat in front of them was Lord Manderly, who had clearly found the time to climb the stairs from his chambers on the floor below. The old man looked sleepy, and every few seconds his eyes started to droop. He wore a hastily put on doublet of light and dark blue, which bore a trident upon the ample sized breast. His beard had not yet been combed.

Mors Umber was the last of the Northern lords that had been summoned. The man was fearsome in appearance, and was somehow even more so when his sleep had been disturbed. The other Umber brother, Hother, had left Winterfell some days before to return to the Last Hearth. Mors was waiting here for whenever his nephew, the Greatjon, was able to return home from the south.

Two of the nine people here were Arthor's own brothers on the Kingsguard. Ser Richard Horpe, their Lord Commander, stood behind Stannis, at his back, his hand placed on the hilt of his sword. The other, who Arthor had first met as Ned Tonver, was Ned Overton, one of his fellow Northmen. Overton had taken the white cloak as part of an agreement between Stannis and his father, to guarantee Overton support against Roose Bolton and his bastard.

Farring and Peasebury were also both in attendance. It was quite comical seeing large Godry the Giantslayer stood next to little Lord Peapod, as the Northmen called him. Peasebury's nose was flushed red, and Godry was clearly little too happy to have been awakened at this hour.

The last of the nine was the most beautiful, though beating out Mors Umber, Wyman Manderly and Maege Mormont was no grand achievement, and the only one save for Lord Manderly and King Stannis who was seated. The Lady Melisandre had taken her place in the corner, and was watching on. Arthor felt her eyes on his, and he quickly looked away. He could tell, however, that she did not. There was something awful about her amused gaze.

"We can begin then."

Stannis' words were as simple as one would expect from the man. Arthor noticed that he was thinner than the last time he had laid eyes on his king. He barely ate nowadays, and his physical condition had been declining ever since he had received the news about the Princess Shireen, which had been many months ago now. He was a father still mourning loss.

"Maester Pylos has this morning received a raven from the Dreadfort. Lord Wull, who is holding the castle until a suitable man is found, has reported sighting a small group of aggressive dilitants pass by in the direction of Winterfell. He claims that they march from the east, from Karhold, under the banner of this wildling chieftain who calls himself a lord."

The news was met with silence by most gathered. They were either too tired to take in the news or their thoughts were elsewhere, with the food and wine they could be having to break their fasts.

"I am asking you for council. Please provide it."

There was an exasperated tone in the voice of the king. It was Wyman Manderly who hurriedly concocted a response.

"Well, your grace… I… We must remain open minded to this man. We desire peace in the realm, not more war. If it is legitimisation of his claim on Karhold that he is after then I say allow him to bend the knee and enter the one true king's peace."

That suggestion was met with a response of approval from Maege Mormont and Robett Glover, who spoke next.

"Such would be a most prudent and generous offer for the man, your grace, that I doubt he would be able to decline."

Stannis waved away the sycophancies of Lord Glover, and instead turned his eyes on Godry, who didn't seem the least bit interested in the goings on of some wildling chief.

"And what say you, Lord Farring?"

"If the man is spoiling for a fight then we should give him one. We destroyed his filthy kind underneath the Wall, and I would happily do it again, to remind them why it is we who thrive south of the Wall."

Godry would have them fight the Wall itself if he could. His response to any problem that King Stannis encountered was to unsheathe a sword and remind the problem of who the most skilled fighter was.

"Your southron is right. The wildlings are a plague and a pestilence. Show mercy to them? After all they have done against our people and our families. You are too soft, Manderly. Mayhaps as far south as White Harbour you may not have been troubled, but at the Last hearth we had raiding parties on our land twice a month. The same for those of Bear Island Deepwood Motte. Mercy? Instead show him the sharp end of your blade, your grace."

Mors Umber spoke with a bile in his mouth. You could tell that this man held nothing but hatred for the people that lived north of the Wall. They had wronged him and he had not let the grudge die as time passed. Still, he doubted that it was this wildling in particular that had done the wronging.

"Lord Wull also says that he spotted men of the Night's Watch with this man. I am inclined to listen to them then. We have not had a raven from Ser Denys Mallister in some time. I will ask them how they fare at the Wall."

And with that the decision was made. Lords Manderly and Glover left with Lady Mormont. Mors Umber stormed out of the room before them, whilst Ser Godry and Lord Peasebury left at their own pleasure. That left Arthor with Stannis, the two Kingsguard men and the red woman, who finally rose from her place.

"This man, the wildling of the Northern hills, who fights underneath a setting sun, I have seen him in my flames. He runs from a terrible disaster, with the dead at his back and on his shoulders and in his heart. Turn him away at your peril, your grace, for I think he has a role to play in the world that must come when the winter has ended and the Great Other is vanquished."

Stannis responded to the woman's words with a curt nod, but something about his eyes made Arthor think that he had heeded the red woman's advice more than any of those that had just given their own council. Her words were foreboding and ominous, and the way she spoke carried weight. She should not go unheeded.

Stannis' eyes finally turned on Arthor himself. He shifted slightly, so that he was stood with his back straighter than it had been before.

"And you, Karstark? This wildling claims your family seat. You must surely have some view on what we do with the man."

"Well, your grace, It is likely a mix of the ideas. Send Farring and Glover at the head of a small force of your men. Show the wildling our strength, but have them be open to negotiate with the man if that is what he desires. Manderly may have been pandering, but he is not wrong. We do not want more wars. We want peace now."

Stannis didn't respond for a few seconds, but eventually nodded. Arthor relaxed slightly. That meant the king had taken his idea on board. He did not know this wildling, but he was married to little Alys. He hoped that they loved each other. If they did then he would happily see the man hold Karhold with her as his bride.

Stannis waved his hand in the air.

"You may leave me the both of you. Go."

Arthor nodded, and strode out of the solar. He was followed out of the room by the red woman, who had a knowing smile on her face. She wetted her lips slightly, and moved to stand in the corridor, blocking off his passage so that he couldn't leave.

"Tell me, Ser Karstark, what makes a man be willing to give up his whole life in service to another man? I see the way you look at Ser Farring and Lords Manderly and Peasebury. You look down on them, and yet when this war is done, they will return to their families and their lands, yet all you will have is that white cloak."

"Stannis Baratheon is the one true king of Westeros. It is my honour and my privilege to have committed my life in service to him."

They were the words that he had gotten used to saying to himself whenever he thought of Wylla Manderly. He spoke them to himself over and over before he slept, as he stood guard at his king's door, as he patrolled the Winterfell battlements. He could barely convince himself of their honesty, so how could he hope to convince this witch woman who stared into the hearts of men and knew their deepest darkest truths?

"Have you ever felt the touch of a woman, Ser? Have you ever known what it is to be inside one, or to feel her lips pressed against yours, to feel her breasts moulded in your hands? Are you a maiden, Ser Karstark?"

He could feel a flush pass onto his face, underneath his thick, matted beard.

"In love maybe, my lady, but not in blood. I have killed men. I killed my own brothers for my king. If I was willing to lose my family for my king then why would a single woman tempt me to break the oaths that I swore in the name of the old gods and the new?"

The red woman's laugh was a slight chuckle at that, as if she had known his response before he had given it. She seemed to be more amused at being right than what he had said.

"It is my experience that men's hearts oft work in strange and unusual ways, Ser Karstark. You think you love something and then you no longer do. Love is the most powerful and dangerous weapon in this world, in the wrong hands. How many died for the love between Rhaegar Targaryen and Lyanna Stark? Love and hate are two sides of the same coin, and there is not a war in history that has been started for anything other than one of those two. Who do you love, Ser Karstark? Is it your king or… Someone else?"

Did she know about Wylla? Of course she must. The red woman knew everything that happened in the hallowed walls of Winterfell. She saw all in her flames, that was what the southron soldiers said. She was a seductress and a snake, but she slithered in spices and quaint words. She had the ear of the king. She was untouchable.

He must not be ensnared.

"My love is for my king. No others. If you do not mind, my lady, I am afraid that I must leave you to break my fast. My squire should have readied it by now."

"Ahh yes. Your Frey boy. You should ask him about his cousin. I am sure that he will be willing to come clean about it by now. I am sure it will have some interest to you."

The red woman stood aside then, and Arthor walked past her. He could feel her eyes on him for the entire length of the corridor, and he knew that she would have that same smile upon her face. What had she meant by what Walder Frey might know? Did the boy hold some sort of secret that he had not shared with him? He must ask him.

Fortunately he found his squire sat on the floor of his chambers when he returned, a bucket of water sat next to him. He was scrubbing away at Arthor's ceremonial helmet, to try and remove some of the grime from one of the divots. The floor was damp with water, so he must have been going at it for some time.

He rose when he saw Arthor walk through the door. There was some attempt at a clumsy salute, which was unnecessary, and then he gestured to where a plate of bread was laid on the small table that made up one of the sparse pieces of furniture in the room. He sat himself down on the rickety chair, and attacked the food, devouring two of the four slices before turning around to look at Walder.

"Why do they call you Big Walder, boy?"

The Frey boy was clearly caught off guard by such a question. He nearly stuttered and stammered the response. He was nervous.

"I- I had a cousin born some days after me, my lord- He was called Little Walder, though he was bigger than me. It was something of a joke."

Arthor nodded, and ate another half slice of the bread that the boy had provided him with. It was mealy and stiff, nearly stale, but it was better than nothing. There was also a tankard of water, but he didn't touch that just yet.

"Did you like the joke?"

"I- Not particularly. Why do you ask, my lord?"

Arthor shook his head and stared at the boy.

"What did I tell you about calling me my lord, boy?"

Walder's voice was little more than a squeak as he responded to that.

"You said- You said that you were no lord and did not needed to be addressed as such. I'm sorry, my L- Ser Karstark."

Arthor nodded.

"That's better. So tell me, boy, what became of this cousin of yours? Is he in the south, at the Twins?"

"He- My cousin- He was killed by the ghost of Winterfell, Ser."

The ghost of Winterfell? Arthor seemed to remember a Manderly and a Hornwood man talking about this in his earshot. The story had been that the restless ghosts of Eddard and Robb Stark had started killing those that they thought were out of place in the castle. It had been mostly Bolton and Frey men. He hadn't put much stock in it.

"And does this ghost have a name?"

Walder let out a strange eek noise, that was like a cross between a nervous hiccup and a shriek. The boy was nearly shaking. Arthor did not need to hear him say what the truth was to know what Big Walder Frey had done. There was no man more accursed than the kinslayer. That was what his uncle Rickard had always told him.

"So you killed your cousin, boy? Out of jealousy? Malice? Hatred? What made you do it? Was it the joke?"

"No, Ser. I- It was Lord Manderly, Ser. He took me into a corner and told me- He told me that either way a Frey was going to die that night. He gave me the knife and sent me on my way. Yes, my Lord. I killed my cousin, but only to spare myself from the very same fate."

He should have known that this had the sticky hands of Wyman Manderly imprinted on the story. So he had turned a cousin against a cousin to further his revenge against the Freys. Had he even considered what it would do to the child? Had he considered the laws of guestright that he was indirectly breaking by killing all those men? Of course he hadn't, for Manderly was a cunning man driven by rage and regret. He did not care for the boy, or for the consequences of his actions.

"May the old gods look kindly on you, boy. I am sorry for what has been done to you."

The Frey boy was snivelling and sobbing by this point. Arthor rose from his seat, and pulled the boy into an embrace. It was tender and caring, and for the first time he felt a pang of emotion for the child.

He felt like a father.


	121. Bran VII

The cold winds of winter blew through the chilled night sky, whipping tiny flakes of snow down from the heavens. Many of those flakes settled in the dark hair of Benjen Stark. He was seated on a plank of wood, hunched over something, and shaking gently to keep himself warm. He wore a thick wolfskin cloak, and the blacks that he had used to wear were gone. His jerkin now was grey.

In front of him was a small fire, but the flames that leapt up from it were a cold icy blue. There was heat coming off it, but it was a cold flame, warming the skin but not the body. It was almost shallow in its effects.

Bran Stark sat down opposite his uncle. He walked over to the spot. That's how he knew that it had to be a vision. He sat down and looked over at Benjen Stark, who looked pale and different. Was this really his uncle? They didn't speak, and instead Bran took in both his uncle and their surroundings.

Benjen had his eyes closed, and it looked like he was muttering some words under his breath. Bran couldn't hear them, but the lip movements didn't look human. What was he saying? Who was he talking to? He was definitely talking to someone. Bran could feel the presence of another person, but when he looked around there was no one to be seen. Not even Meera.

They were sat in some form of icy waste. There was darkness all around them, only partly lit up by the dancing blue flames. Bran thought that he could make out the shadows of some mountains off to his left, but he wasn't sure. How could a shadow exist in this eternal darkness? He wasn't quite sure.

When he looked back at his uncle he realised that Benjen had stopped his muttering, but still his eyes were trained firmly on the floor. Why wasn't he looking at Bran? Was he scared?

This wasn't the first time that he had seen his uncle since Benjen Stark disappeared from the Wall. He had seen him before when Jojen Reed had shown him his true enemy. Benjen had been coming for him. Bran had run from him before, and yet now he sat down with him. His uncle; his enemy. This man was one and the same.

The wolf of winter, who led the icy Others south beyond what had once been the Wall. He passed the ruins and came for Winterfell. He came to deliver the winter that always had to come. It was destiny and fate. Winter was coming. Winter was always coming.

"You know the truth, don't you, Bran? You saw the man that they called the Night's King. You saw his life and his death. You saw his son, my namesake. There is power in names, Bran. You saw Brandon the Betrayer butchered by his nephew for the mere crime of wanting to live his life beyond the restrictions enforced on us in the Night's Watch."

His uncle's voice was different than it had been before. It was raspier. He looked up, and Bran let out a gasp. His uncle had changed. His brown hair was matted with ice, and there was crystals forming on his shallow cheeks. His eyes were brown, but tinted with an icy blue. Their stare was cold and intimidating. There was definitely something that he knew.

"They killed him for living his life. They killed his son for being born. Since that day, there has been an oath sworn against the men of House Stark. An oath of vengeance. One day the other sons will come south and will destroy all that Brandon the Builder built for the wolf of Winterfell. Already his greatest achievement is fallen. I shall see that Winterfell is destroyed too, with the Stark line with it."

So that was what the Others were? They were the children of the unholy union between the Night's King and his undead queen. They were bound by the call to vengeance that Brandon the Betrayer had muttered in his last words. Until the Stark line was destroyed they would keep coming. Winter would always come whilst there was a Stark in Winterfell.

"For thousands of years they have been condemned to stay in the Land of Always Winter, far beyond the Wall, further north than even the Wildlings dared to reach. In those lands of cold and ice they waited for the time to be right. Those years… They twisted them. They had once been humans, cursed with the gift of immortality they started to twist. They froze over and became the monsters that your wetnurse told you about. The Others. The White Walkers. They come for what has made them into these creatures, for only fulfilling the oath and having their vengeance can free them from the cruel fate that has befallen them."

Life beyond death in the cold wastes of the Land of Always Winter? That was a cruel fate indeed. It was not merely immortality, it was forced. No wonder they wanted their revenge. No wonder they wanted to be free from this destiny.

He had seen the vision of the Night's King and his son. He had felt sorry for them when the King in the North had come to have his justice. He had felt sorry for the boy that had died and the father who had watched his own son perish. They had been removed from history for their crimes, but had they been much more than a loving father and son, manipulated by a Queen of the Dead? Had they deserved to die for the things that they had done?

"I have seen much, Uncle Benjen. I saw the Night's King, that is true. I also saw why you were sent to the Wall. I saw the truth of Jon Snow, the child of Lyanna Stark and Arthur Dayne. I saw what you did and why you were punished. The realm bled because you pushed your sister away when she needed you most. You deserved your place at the Wall. You are a traitor, Uncle."

"No!"

Benjen reacted violently to Bran's words. He rose from his seated position and let out a howl of anguish that echoed around this desolate land of ice and snow. The sound seemed to warp, to Bran's ears, into that of a hungry wolf, but when Benjen next turned to him, it was not a wolf's eyes that Bran saw. These were very human. They were the eyes of a man who was cursed himself.

"Your father! Your father pushed me away because he blamed himself for not saving her. I loved Lyanna more than anyone. I cared for her more than our father, more than Ned or Brandon. They failed her, not me! They failed her the moment that they offered her to the accursed Baratheon."

Benjen's voice had become less cold now. There was fire and passion in his words. He truly believed everything that he was saying. Bran could see that. He could hear that in the way that his uncle spoke.

"I protected her at Harrenhal, when the Prince and the others came for her. I told them that it was I who rode in the tourney, and they believed me, all save for Arthur Dayne. You want to see a traitor, Bran? Look no further than the great Sword of the Morning, who threw away his vows for Lyanna. He killed her the moment that she believed his promises and words. He killed her. He murdered her!"

Bran half thought that his uncle was going to burst into floods of tears the amount of hurt that was in his voice now. The pain that Benjen Stark had felt then was evident, and it had never truly died. Was this why he had betrayed his family for the Others? Was this why he had betrayed all of humanity?

He had seen and heard the way that Arthur Dayne had talked to Lyanna. It had not been an act. There had been no pretense there, beyond genuine feelings of love and affection. Did Benjen not understand that? Had the Others made him so cold that the flames of love and passions of the heart had escaped him? Bran was but three and ten years, or so he thought, and yet he knew those feelings. They came to him whenever he looked at Meera.

"I offered her safety. I told her that we could run away from it all. She would not need Robert or Dayne, but she could have me. She rejected me, of course. I did not speak words so sweet as Ser Arthur, nor did I swing a sword half as well as he. I was no shining knight in white armour and a white cloak. I was nothing to her."

Bran was able to spot the irony here. Benjen hated Arthur Dayne, and everything that he had represented, the white cloak of the Kingsguard, and had joined the Night's Watch, to clad himself all in black. Black and white. Two opposites and yet so similar. Was his uncle that different from the white knight that he so despised?

"You're wrong, Uncle Benjen. She did care for you. Why else would she have told you and no-one else about her feelings for Arthur Dayne? She valued you and your opinion. You were too obsessed with yourself to see that. What you have done cannot be undone, but you can prevent more disaster happening. Repent, and do yourself justice. For Lyanna, if for no-one else."

"What do you know of love, boy? You are not even yet a man. How can you know what it feels like to be spurned and turned away?"

That hit Bran hard. He knew exactly how it felt to be rejected, for Meera had rejected him. Could he explain that to this thing that his uncle had become?

"I loved my father, your brother. I loved my brother Rickon, and Robb. I loved my sisters, Sansa and Arya. I loved my mother, and our brother, Jon. I loved Maester Luwin, who taught me. I loved Hodor and Jojen Reed, who helped me and guided me. I love my home at Winterfell. I love Meera Reed, the daughter of Howland Reed, and one day she shall love me in return. I may be a boy, uncle, but there is more true love in me than there has ever been in you. I thought that I may be able to save you, but I cannot. For you have been like this longer than I suspected. When did the crow come to you uncle? When you went to the Wall? When your own sister rejected you?"

"Silence, boy!"

Bran thought that his uncle was about to slap him, but he did not flinch. Here he was not broken Bran Stark. Here he could walk and run and dance. Here he could fight his uncle, and maybe even beat him. There was nothing to be scared of here.

"Your crow has a name. Brynden Rivers some called him, Lord Bloodraven was how he was known to others. He served kings and black brothers alike. He served the realm, until he was shown the truth of it all."

Benjen was interrupted then, by a reedy and weak voice.

"This is not your story to tell, Benjen Stark. Allow me to inform your nephew."

Bran turned to look at the man that was speaking. He was raggedy and pale of skin, with wrinkles across his face. His hair was sparse and grey. Parts of it were brittle, like hay. One of his eyes was missing, and instead there was just a scar across the left side of his face. He wore all black, and looked cold to the touch, but Bran could still sense that there was a fire in this man, somewhere deep down. He wasn't sure that he wanted to see it.

"It feels good to walk again, doesn't it, Bran? I spent so long held down by that tree that I forgot some of the simple pleasures that I used to take for granted. Do you find that to be true for you too? Your legs are just as broken as I am."

Lord Bloodraven sat down next to Benjen, and smiled towards Bran. He wanted to recoil from the gesture. He knew what this man was capable of. He had used Jojen for his own ends. He had tried to turn him into someone just like him. Bran knew about Brynden Rivers, and all the smiles in the world would not be able to make him forget.

"I am not a man to be feared, Bran. I am merely the most recent in a long line of special men, those blessed with the ability to interact with the weirwoods. The network needs people like me, Bran. People like you. It is an honour, really. To be named the Three Eyed Crow is the greatest honour that can be bestowed on a member of the one true faith."

Bran knew what Brynden meant. He had told him the same things in the cave. The Threeyed Crow and the Last Greenseer were titles bestowed on a man with the blood of the First Men, who prayed to the Old Gods. They would journey to the cave and would then spend their lives there, dictating both fate and destiny. Brynden had been chosen by his predecessor, whose bones now littered the cave floor, and in turn Brynden had chosen him.

"Serving your post may have been your duty, but aiding the Others was not. That was your choice, and it was evil."

Brynden chuckled at that, and shook his head. When he fixed his one good eye on Bran, there was something mocking in the gaze.

"You truly are a boy, Bran Stark. Do you still think there is evil in this world? Do you not think it was evil what your ancestor did to Brandon Stark, the Thirteenth Lord Commander, and his son? All men have evil in them. I have seen the heart of that. My brothers… Well, I know the true darkness in men's hearts, and I intend to extinguish it and start anew. A purer world for those who deserve it."

Bran shook his head. The words were lies. Some men may be evil, but there was more goodness in most than bad. This man had never known Maester Luwin, or Hodor, or brave Ser Rodrik Cassell. They had all been good men. He had not known Bran's father, or his brothers, Robb and Jon Snow. They were all good.

He had known Meera, but not truly, and there was more goodness in her than there was anything else. Jojen had been good. Bran could recount more names in his head, of men who held goodness in their heart. Brynden Rivers was a twisted cynic. He did not truly know the heart of men.

"You're wrong. You're both wrong. There is goodness in this world, and I will prove it to you."

Benjen snarled at that, but Brynden's reaction was just another smile. He leaned forward, and placed his wrinkled hand onto Bran's. There was heat in the man. It was almost as if he was still alive.

"We shall see."

Bran reeled back then, and found his head filled with images of men, some that he knew, some that he didn't.

He saw the man called Gregor Clegane raping a woman whilst his men watched. He saw a handsome man with sandy hair driving a spear through the throat of a young boy. He saw Ser Amory Lorch stabbing a Dornish girl over and over and over. There were others too. Petyr Baelish betraying his father for promises of power, and the eunuch Varys firing a crossbow bolt through the heart of Kevan Lannister. A blonde haired boy sat on the Iron Thone was replaced by other figures. N old man with long, matted hair and uncut fingernails, a large man, with a Warhammer and wine goblet thrown on the floor, a youth with Valyrian features whose crown was made of melted gold.

"Evil men, every one of them. Bad men with bad hearts and desires to do bad things. These are the best of you, the kings and lords and knights. These are the men that lead you."

"No!"

Bran called out against the voice, but he was met with only chilling laughter. The voice had been Bloodraven's, but this seemed to be more than one man. There was a mix of cakles, and roars of laughter. One of the voices seemed to let out a queer hiss.

Bran tried to remember their faces, His father. His brother. Maester Luwin, Hallis Mollen and Hodor. Old Nan and Gage the Cook. Theon Greyjoy, as Bran had known him, and Jon Snow. Little Rickon, playing with their sisters, Sansa and Arya.

Then something strange happened. He started to see faces of other men and women. He saw an auburn haired lord talking and embracing a dark haired youth clad in blue. He saw a lowborn smuggler. There was sweet Sam Tarly, who he had met in the Nightfort. He saw a Dornish Princess, a female ship captain. He saw an elderly white knight, backed by a sandy haired woman and an ugly youth, both also clad in white. He saw a younger Jojen and Meera, their father stood behind them, a hand on each of their shoulders.

The last face he saw was a stern one. The eyes were hard and cold, and the lips were tight and etched into a frown. There was little hair on his head, but what there was resembled the shadow of a crown, running around his head. He was stood in the Winterfell Godswood, ready to fight.

Then he was gone. Those had all been good men and women. Bran was not in the wilderness he had been in before, but was instead laid on his sled, looking up at the cold winter sky. He struggled to breathe steadily at first. He was nearly in shock. What had just happened? Had all that really happened?

"Bran! Bran, you're awake!"

He heard Meera's voice wash over him, and he instantly smiled and calmed down. She had that effect on him. She pulled the top half of him up into an embrace. There were tears on her face. She had been crying.

"I- I thought that you weren't going to come back to me, Bran. I thought you were gone."

"I would never leave you, Meera. Never."

She pulled away from him and smiled. He realised that the tears hadn't been sad ones. Why was she smiling? Why was she happy?

"Bran, there's someone that I want you to meet."

She moved out of his line of sight. Bran realised that they wrere ina wooded area. They were surrounded by trees, but they were in a small clearing.

Just then a figure came out from the trees. It was a slight man, with twinkling green eyes and a forked beard of brown hair. He was dressed in a green and brown cloak. He knew this man.

Howland Reed.


	122. Patrek XI

The Mallister group passed underneath the ramparts of Riverrun, and Patrek looked up to see the silver trout flying over the castle. It was crazy to think that not so long ago it had been the twin towers of Frey that flew over the walls. He had helped to tear that down when he murdered Emmon Frey. His father had destroyed the rebel Freys at the Twins.

That was why he was so surprised to see the twin towers flapping over the walls. The wind whipped through the fabric and threatened to send it flying. He dismounted his horse and took another look at the flags. Why was the Frey flag flying? It was, of course, joined by the flags of Blackwood, Bracken, Vance, Wayn and Mallister. Maybe it was just there to honour Perwyn Frey, who had officially taken his place as the Lord of the Twins.

Except there were a few horses in the stable with the Frey sigils on their fabric saddles. They had clearly come from the Twins, or maybe Darry, where young Bradamar Frey was holding his new seat. Why would the young lord have come to Riverrun though? No, he thought it was far more likely that they were from the Twins, which might mean that Perwyn Frey was here.

Patrek turned and then noticed that a group of people were walking over to him. On the left of them was Jason Mallister, the Lord of Seagard, and his father. Joining him was Utherydes Wayn, the chief steward of Riverrun. Wayn was an old man, but he knew more about Riverrun than any man alive. Edmure had reinstated Wayn to the post that he had always held under Hoster Tully. It had been one of his first actions before leaving for the Westerlands.

The figure in the middle was the Lord of Riverrun himself. Edmure Tully was looking much healthier than he had been the last time that Patrek had seen him. There was less paleness in his skin, and the bags under his eyes had all but disappeared. There was more life in the traditional auburn hair of the Tullys. Still, there was less of a shine in his eyes, and it was clear that there was still some ghost haunting him.

Patrek brushed down his clothes, and readied himself for the arrival of the three men. With them could come good new, or tidings of bad things. Whatever it was, he needed to talk with them. He had to make the case of Barbara Bracken. Edmure was the only one of them that could solve the problem at Stone Hedge, but Patrek's father and Ser Utherydes both had the ear of the Lord of Riverrun.

"Patrek, my friend! It is a true joy to see you again so soon. I have been counting the days."

There was something hollow about the way that Edmure spoke. He still wasn't fully recovered from the death of his wife and child. What man would be? Yet the fact that he was outside and trying to pretend everything was fine for his people was a good thing. Edmure had always been stronger than people thought.

The Lord of Riverrun pulled him into an embrace, and clapped him on the back. Patrek felt the auburn fuzz of Edmure's beard rub against his neck. Had his lord missed him this much, or was there more to this than there appeared on the outside?

Jason also gave Patrek an embrace, when Edmure had finally let go. Patrek was thankful that the old steward didn't follow suit. There was a gentle nod between the two of them. He was on good terms with Wayn.

"I saw the Frey banner flying when we arrived. Has something happened?"

Edmure had a quizzical look in his eyes. He looked to Jason first, who nodded lightly.

"You did not hear, my friend? Aegon and Daenerys Targaryen, who call themselves the heirs of the Mad King, have marched on Harrenhal. Ser Bonnifer Hasty, the Lannister man holding the castle, refused to bend the knee because of his piety, and he was burned alive inside the walls of the castle by the Targaryen dragons. The smallfolk say that they are Aegon the Conqueror and his sister wives come again."

This information was indeed news to Patrek. It must have happened some time after they left Stone Hedge. They had slept at some inns on the way back to Riverrun, but news had been slow, and the inns had been cut off from Riverrun even, let alone Harrenhal, which was many leagues to the east.

If the Targaryens had moved their armies west from King's Landing then there was only one thing that they were coming for. Edmure had to know that. They were entering the Riverlands to bring House Tully either back into their peace or to their knees. What was Edmure planning?

"I have called my bannermen to me. The flags that you saw were those of Perwyn Frey, who is marshalling the lords and knights on the other side of the Trident at the Twins. I have dispatched the smallfolk from around Wayfarer's Rest and Pinkmaiden to Seagard, with the approval of your father, to spare them from the oncoming dragons."

That was a smart move. Robb Stark's war with the Lannisters had been lost against the guerrilla tactics of Gregor Clegane and Amory Lorch torching villages. Edmure had done well to realise what the Targaryens would try and do.

"Do they march on Riverrun?"

"Not yet. I dispatched my uncle to the lands near Harrenhal to bring me reports of what the Lannister forces are planning. They have the Golden Company with them, as well as Dothraki and Unsullied, Patrek. There was a time when I would have been hungry for glory, and I would have met them on the field, but now… Well, my hunger for war and battle has been well sated."

So the Blackfish had left Riverrun. That was another good decision. Brynden Tully was a fine rider, and a loyal commander. He had commanded the freeriders for Robb's campaigns across both the Riverlands and Westerlands. He would serve Edmure well in scouting out the oncoming armies.

"So what do you intend to do when they arrive? Whatever Brynden tells you, they must be moving on Riverrun. It is the only move that makes sense, Edmure. If you don't intend to meet them in the field…"

Edmure groaned and nodded his head. Maybe it was this conundrum that had been keeping the Lord of Riverrun awake at night. He was clearly aware of the problem that he faced.

"Ser Bonnifer's fate demonstrates what will befall any man that decides to stay behind the walls of their castle and oppose these lizards. There is not a castle in Westeros designed to withstand dragonfire. If it weren't for those dragons… Well, my uncle withstood a siege here before, as did Lord Tytos. The dragons, however, Patrek… The dragons change everything."

Edmure suddenly realised where he was stood, He looked around him, at the blacksmith and the stableboys. Had they heard what they had been talking about. Jason stepped forward then, and put his broad arm around Edmure's shoulders.

"Come, King Edmure, let us take this discussion to your solar. We can talk more there."

Edmure nodded, and then started to walk away. Jason turned to Patrek, and clutched his hand.

"Whatever comes next, my son, you have done me proud. If your mother could see the man that you have become… She would be every part as proud as I am, Patrek. You will make a fine Lord of Seagard one day."

Patrek nodded in appreciation of his father's words. There was a slight smile on his face, and he could feel tears appearing in his eyes. He oft thought of his mother, and to have his father say such things about her caused him to feel warm inside. It was a perfect moment that needed no more words to make it any bettwe.

"You must tell me of all that happened at Stone Hedge, my boy. I see that Lady Barbara Bracken has ridden with you, and that there is no Lord Tytos in your company. Has something happened?"

"Nothing bad. I have offered the place of Lady of Stone Hedge to the second daughter, Jayne Bracken, who is to wed Alyn Blackwood. Lord Tytos has stayed behind to make sure that things go ahead, since the bride has no father to oversee the proceedings. Hoster and Ben Blackwood returned with me."

Jason was stroking his greying beard as Patrek spoke. He knew his father's thoughtful look well. His eyes narrows and he tended to stroke his chin. There was also a slight twitch on the right side of his lips, which curved down slightly.

"And Lady Barbara has accepted this scenario?"

"Barbara rides with me so as she can come before Edmure and profess that she wishes to eschew her inheritance. I have offered her a place at Seagard, to serve as a handmaiden and companion to Jeyne. I hope that the two of them will get along."

He had been thinking of Jeyne ever since they left Stone Hedge, after a stay that lasted half a week. He had been hoping to see her when he arrived back here at Riverrun, but she had not come out to meet him. Had she grown to not love him in the time that he had been away? He had stayed for two months after their wedding. Should he have stayed longer?

The mind of women had often alluded him. He had used to do his fair share of wenching at both Seagard and Riverrun with Edmure and Marq Piper. This war had helped him to grow as a person. Maybe that was just about the only good thing to happen as a result of all this conflict.

"You should go visit your wife before you come to the solar, Patrek. She is bedridden, but otherwise I think that she would have been down here to greet you. Go, boy, I will tell Edmure where you are. I am sure that he will understand."

Patrek could tell that his face had paled the moment that his father had told him that Jeyne was bedridden. Was she ill? Was she dying? He should never have left her. He gave his father a quick nod, and then ran into the main keep of Riverrun. Inside he dodged down a side passage and up a spiral staircase. The rooms that he had shared with Jeyne were the third on the right. He passed two servants, who looked at him as if he was mad, and came to the door.

He stopped outside in an attempt to compose himself. If she was ill then he did not wish to cause her any more stress than was needed. He wanted to remain calm for her.

When he pushed the door open gently he found that the room was busier than he had expected. Three women were milling around. Two of them were servants, whilst the third was clearly a highborn lady. She had taken a place seated beside the bed. There was another girl, stood near the window which looked out on the courtyard. That was Jeyne's sister, Eleyna.

"Jeyne?"

He couldn't disguise the pain and worry in his voice. He could hear it when the words came out of his mouth. He had been trying to remain calm for her and he had failed to do that past saying her name. This was not his expertise.

"Patrek? I had thought Edmure would you rush you off to his solar before you came to see me."

Patrek moved further into the room, and found Jeyne laid out on the bed. There didn't look to be anything wrong with her. She wasn't pale of skin or sweaty of brow. Her hair was flowing and looked well groomed. Her eyes were wide, and there was a smile on her face.

"Eleyna has been watching you. She told me of your return with the Lady Bracken and the Blackwood boys. She told me that you were talking with King Edmure, Ser Utherydes and your father. If there is something more pressing-"

"There is never anything more pressing than you, my love."

He went to her side and kissed her brow, and embraced her. She did not wince during the embrace. What could possibly have left her bedridden that he couldn't see? She clearly wasn't in much pain.

"We should leave you two alone. Come Eleyna, let us go see whether Rollam has found his way out of the kitchen yet."

The highborn lady rose from her seated position, and waved the servants and the little girl from the room. Eleyna looked reluctant to leave, but the lady had her gone soon enough. She stopped at Jeyne's bed before leaving herself.

"If you have any need of me, Jeyne…"

"If I have anything that my husband cannot do then I will send for you. Thank you, Lady Ravella."

The elder woman nodded, a calming smile on her face, and then she left. The door closed quietly behind her, and Patrek took the vacated seat, taking Jeyne's hands in his. She didn't feel too cold or too hot. She looked and felt fine. What was wrong with her?

"My father said-"

There was a playful smile on Jeyne's face as she interrupted him.

"What exactly did your father tell you? Did he spoil the surprise?"

The surprise? Patrek's father had told him that his wife had been bedridden, and yet Jeyne seemed to be treating it like a good thing had happened to her. What was going on? Were his wife and his father conspiring to kill him through worry?

"He told me you were bedridden. I was worried that you were Ill, or… Or worse."

Jeyne giggled slightly at that.

"You worry too much, Patrek. It's a good thing. It shows how much you care for everyone. You will have to tell me all that happened at Stone Hedge tonight."

Was she really going to change the topic after all of this. Was this a game to her? She was playing with his emotions and with his worry.

"Jeyne…"

She held up her hands and laughed again. She had a nice laugh.

"Okay, okay. You want to know what's wrong with me, Patrek. Its all your fault really, so I guess it is only fair that you know."

She leaned over to him, and whispered the words into his ears. Patrek swallowed his shock and sat back slightly in his chair. He hadn't expected that at all.

He was going to be a father.


	123. The Lion Cousin

Martyn Lannister sat at his place on the council of Casterly Rock. His uncle Gerion had the place at the head of the table, which would one day be occupied by his cousin Tyrion. They were joined by a few of the other knights and lords of high repute of the Westerlands. There was Marcos Payne, who sat opposite Gerion, the same steel in his silver eyes as there usually was. Then there was Addam Marbrand, whose father had returned to Ashmark not long after the affair at Sarsfield. Few lords had joined them on their progression further west. Most had returned to their seats.

One who had not was the large Roland Crakehall, who sat opposite Martyn. The man had a large nose, that had clearly been broken more than once, with jet black hair and large muscles that stretched at his brown doublet. His cloak clearly struggled to get all around his thick neck, and his broad shoulders bore a straight back. That was the posture and appearance of a warrior.

They were joined also by the knights Alyn Stackspear and Benedict Broom, as well as Lord Phillip Plumm, who was present because they were gathered in the solar of the keep at Plummton, the seat of the Plumms. It was the closest of the castles in the Westerlands to Feastfires and Kayce, where Lords Prester and Kenning were gathering their forces for war. Martyn tried to put any comparisons between them and the Reynes and Tarbecks to the back of his mind.

Plumm had been a warrior in his youth. He had been a fine tourney knight, with a head of hair and muscles near as large as Roland Crakehall's, or so Gerion had told him. The man that was left now was not that. He had two chins sagging from his neck, and only the fuzz of a grey beard on his jowls. His hair was grey too, and swept across his head in an attempt to mask his evident baldness. He was still of a decent height, but his back was hunched and his muscles had long since gone to flab and fat.

"My scouts sighted seven of Lord Farman's longships passing the peninsula and coming in to dock at Kayce, my lords. I fear that on board those ships will be the garrison of Fair Isle, here to add to the forces gathered against our own."

That was Phillip Plumm speaking. There was something simpering about his voice. There was no fight or willpower in this man anymore. He was here to serve the younger and more powerful lords that also gathered.

"So how many men do we believe that the enemy commands?"

It was Benedict Broom's question, and it was Addam Marbrand that answered him. The knight of Ashmark was sat in his chair with a lean to one side, whilst the other warriors sat straight back with a fine posture. This was a man of a different generation. He had heard Marcos Payne describe Marbrand as a knight of summer.

"Between Kenning and Prester we think they may have amassed one thousand and a further five hundred men. With Farman then they may have two thousand."

"We command five thousand men, with Marbrands, Paynes, Lannisters and Crakehalls all together. Allow me to lead the assault on Kayce, Lord Gerion, and I shall deliver you the heads of these traitors."

Marcos Payne had a gleam in his eyes as he talked about the dismemberment of his enemy. The man was cruel. He cared little for the lives of his men, and even less for those of the other houses represented at this table. If he was allowed to lead an assault then it would lead to slaughter on both sides. Besides, Lord Sebaston Farman was not as much a traitor as these men thought. Martyn had promised to protect the man. He felt the need to speak up.

"Kayce may not seem like an important stronghold, Lord Marcos, but it was constructed to withstand siege from both land and sea. Even with five thousand men I doubt that we could take the castle without sustaining heavy casualties. I do not think that a full frontal assault is the way forward."

That rebuttal was met by a glare from Marcos and a nod of approval from Marbrand. Martyn was glad. He held a lot of admiration for the Knight of Ashemark.

"The words of a green boy. What experience of battle and warfare have you had beyond being placed in the cells of Robb Stark?"

"A fate that befell him because of the foolishness and rashness of Ser Jaime, Payne. He wanted to get his war done swiftly, just like you, and he failed for it. Patience should be used here. The Targaryen dragon moves against the Tullys of Riverrun, so we have time on our side. That said, we should look to resolve this little issue before the eyes of the dragons turn west."

Addam Marbrand leaned forward in his chair, resting his hands on the table in front of him.

"An assault would be foolhardy, and a siege would take us too long. We must work out a way of getting inside those walls and opening the gates, thereby allowing our troops to get into the castle without need for scaling the walls."

"And do you think it easy to get men inside the walls of our enemy, Marbrand? Do you think that Lord Kayce will just open his gates to our spies and allow them safe passage? And you called my suggestion foolishness."

Marcos sneered at Marbrand, who met the gesture with a glare. There truly was no love lost between these two. They very rarely agreed on any matter of any importance. It did not make for a good atmosphere at the council.

"I have a plan."

He heard the words leave his lips before truly thinking them through. He did have a plan, but he had been hoping to keep it to himself. He watched the heads of all the men at the table turn to him. There was a mocking sneer in the look of Marcos Payne, but a quiet expectation from most others. He guessed that he had to talk now.

"Well, as far as I see it, Lord Farman is likely to send a ship back from Kayce right? He will want to report back to his wife and daughters of his safe arrival, and he would be foolhardy to send a raven, as it would pass straight over us to get to Fair Isle. If we sent our own ship to intercept it on its travels then we could sail back under Farman colours. Then the ship would be able to dock at Kayce's harbour."

There was silence from most of the others. Not even Marcos Payne offered a cynical retort to the suggestion. Lord Plumm interchanged a quick glance with Benedict broom, but other than that there was no instant response from anyone.

"That could work."

Addam Marbrand leant forward in his seat, his eyes trained on Martyn, a thin smile on his lips.

"If we captured the ship then we could tell them that we turned back from passing so close to Pyke, where Euron Greyjoy rules over the Ironborn scum. It's a good idea, Martyn."

"Aye, it is."

Martyn's uncle Gerion gave him an approving nod, and Martyn ducked his head to avoid showing the council his childish smile and blush. He was conscious of seeming much younger than the other men at this table. Marcus was right. His experience with war and conflict was nothing compared to some of the men here. Lord Crakehall had been one of the first men into the Red Keep during the Sack of King's Landing, and had been second in command to Barristan Selmy in his role during the Ironborn rebellion under Balon Greyjoy.

"We haven't even touched on the Brax problem. We should never have allowed Ser Flement to return to Hornvale. We could have used him against his brother."

Lord Marcos was again dictating the conversation. Addam rolled his eyes and leant backwards, as Payne himself leant forward. Martyn found himself looking down at the ground. He had to protect Ser Flement. He was one of those that had offered to turn traitor against Lord Kenning. He hadn't told his uncle. He feared that Gerion would ignore him and kill them anyway.

He had seen his uncle alone before the council where the lords of the West had bent the knee. Gerion had been singing the Rains of Castamere as he dressed himself. Martyn couldn't be sure that there was no Tywin in his uncle. Maybe he would exterminate all of them just to send a message to men like Macros Payne that the Lannisters were in control.

It would be Martyn's cousin, Tyrion, who would take control of the Westerlands upon the true accession of Daenerys and Aegon Targaryen, but he was in King's Landing controlling power. Gerion had free will here, and Tyrion, who wasn't as ruthless as Tywin had been, would never know the things that Gerion would do.

Despite this, Martyn had often heard his aunt Genna, who had been killed by the Tullys, talk about how Tyrion was more like Tywin than either of his other cousins, Cersei or Jaime. Would Tyrion be as bad as Tywin had been? Would he punish all of the lords that had not at first bent the knee?

"If we eliminate the resistance of Houses Kenning, Prester, and Farman then Lord Brax will have no option but to bend the knee. The decisive battle is to be fought here. Kenning is the head of this snake. Kill him and we kill all thoughts of uprising."

Addam Marbrand looked up and down the table as he spoke. Gerion nodded slowly in response, his own eyes fixed on the table.

"We- We could hire a Faceless Man. Maybe."

Lord Plumm's words were anxiously spoken. Martyn knew of the Faceless Men, but had rarely heard other men speak of them. They were feared across the known world.

"The Faceless would no doubt see this job done, but Lord Kenning is not worth whatever extortionate price they would ask. Allow me to storm the castle. I will bring his life to an end."

Lord Marcos looked to Gerion, who did not respond. Instead it was Crakehall who next spoke.

"Give me a sword and allow me to fight the traitor. I will give you his head, cleaved from his shoulders in one blow."

Addam smirked at that. The Marbrand knight loved a duel, and had been a notable tourney knight when he had ridden in his teenage years. Martyn thought that Lord Crakehall would easily dispatch Lord Kenning. Did Addam disagree? Or was he just laughing at the thought of Lord Kenning's headless body?

"I like my nephew's plan the best. Hijack one of the enemy ships and then sail it right into their midst. From there we can open the gates and take the whole castle with little resistance. That means we run no risk of losing our men, but also that one of the other Lords may take control after Kenning's death. We must make sure that we seize Kenning, Farman and Prester at the same time."

Martyn didn't crack a smile at the fact that Gerion had chosen his plan, but he saw Addam give him a supporting nod, and a cruel scowl passing on to the face of Lord Payne. He thought that Marcos might object and make a scene, but instead he just sat back in his chair. Gerion had clearly been waiting to see Macros' reaction too, as he carried on speaking after Payne made it clear that he would not object.

"Unfortunately I fear that either myself or Lord Crakehall would be too easily recognised aboard a ship. I have some men with me who are more than capable on the seas. Would you take them with you, nephew?"

Martyn started at that. He looked up and found Gerion's eyes trained on him. He had not expected that he himself would be sent on the expedition to take Kayce. Maybe one of the more experienced fighters might have been sent. He supposed that maybe having a younger man would make it less suspicious.

"Gladly, my lord."

"I would like to sail with Martyn, Lord Gerion. I can serve as his sworn shield for the trip, to make sure that my lord's cousin does not get taken hostage by the enemy."

Martyn was surprised to hear Addam Marbrand's voice come forward, but found the Marbrand knight smiling as he spoke. He was clearly glad that Payne's idea had been overlooked, and was supportive of anything that didn't see their Lannister armies massacred.

"I too would desire to join this party. Sers Martyn and Addam may be fine young knights but neither have the experience to deal with a veteran like Lord Kenning."

Martyn gulped. That was Marcos Payne's voice. Why would he suddenly try to join the group? He had hated the idea. The only reason that he could want to go was to undermine the plan, or to do something differently. Marcos wasn't here out of loyalty to Casterly Rock. He was here because it was what most benefitted him.

Still, Marcos Payne commanded a number of important vassals, and further from that, several of the lords who had bent the knee to Gerion had only done it because of Lord Payne. Gerion couldn't afford to anger the lord. There was no use in making an enemy out of this man when they already had more enemies than they could deal with.

Gerion then surprised Martyn by rising from his seat at the end of the table.

"Very well. Ser Addam and Lord Marcos will join my nephew on his trip to Kayce. You will take one of Lord Farman's ships and sail into their harbour. Deliver Lord Kenning to me alive. Soon we will have the Westerlands reunited."


	124. Tyrion VIII

Tyrion Lannister wiped the water from his eyes. It was early in the morning and the sun was shining in through the window in his solar. The bottle of Dornish wine that had been sat on his desk for the last few days was empty and cascarded in the corner, and the pounding echoes of a hangover were running across the edge of his mind. He couldn't think straight. Now was not the time to have been awoken by a concerned citizen then.

Sat opposite the table from him was Daario Naharis. The gharish blue of the man's beard and the bright yellow jerkin and doublet that he was wearing today was not appreciated either. It seemed like wherever Tyrion looked he saw something bright that caused his eyes to water and his head to pound even further. All he really wanted was the darkness of a few hours more sleep.

"And so you see my predicament, Lord Lannister. I was promised this castle by Queen Daenerys, who I have loyally followed since she came to Yunkai, and yet she has left and I have no castle."

Tyrion ran his right hand through his hair. He closed his eyes, in the hope that darkness might offer some retrieve from the brightness that was inducing his headache, but all he could feel then was himself drifting off to sleep, so he had to open his eyes.

Naharis had been one of the men left behind when Daenerys and Aegon had left the city. Aegon feared that now the pretender Rhaenys was dead, the Crown Lords would look for their own king, and Stannis Baratheon had once held Dragonstone. Lords Celtigar and Velaryon, both of whom were young boys, might hold some affinity for their old liege. Tyrion hadn't thought so, but Daenerys was his patron, and he saw no reason to argue with her husband.

And so he had been left a few military men and commanders. Rolland Caron, who had once been a bastard Storm, was one of them. The man commanded a foul temper and was more pious than most knights. He had decided to coordinate the salvaging of what had once been the Great Sept of Baelor, along with Septon Luceon, who Aegon had named temporary head of the Faith. e He

Then there were the Brave Companions. Tyrion disliked Rolland Caron, but he feared the Brave Companions. There were fewer of them than there had been at the start of the War of the Five Kings, but each and every one of them had been turned away by the other sellsword companies of Essos, who famously took anyone. These were not men to be trifled with.

There was some unspoken grudge between their commander, a man named Urswyck, who insisted that he be addressed as a lord. He reminded Tyrion of one Janos Slynt in that regard. The man was less well-lived than Slynt had been. He had the look of a corpse, and was as thin as most skeletons, with eyes that suggested he had seen some hardships.

Naharis was another of the soldiers left behind. He was the nominal commander of what was left of the Stormcrows. The sellsword company had once been a powerful one, but Daario commanded fewer than fifty men now. Some of his men had opted to stay in Essos, or join the Tattered Prince and his Windblown, who Daenerys had sent to help Pentos in liberating the remaining slaves of the Free Cities.

Hence why Naharis was here, bothering him early in the morning, over the lordship and the castle that he had been promised in return for his loyalty to Daenerys. He wanted power and control. Getting his castle would help secure that.

"And you were promised Rosby?"

"Aye. That is what Queen Daenerys said. I know little of your Andal geography. Is this Rosby far away from the city? Mayhaps I could leave today and be back within the day?"

Naharis handed over a scrap of paper. It did in fact bear the sigil and signature of Daenerys Targaryen. It seemed that Naharis' claim on Rosby was a legitimate one. Old Gyles Rosby had been the last Lord Rosby. Tyrion remembered the man as he had been in his later years, always coughing and close with Lady Stokeworth, who was also now dead.

"Take your castle, Naharis, and stay there until I next send a raven to tell you what Queen Daenerys' orders are."

"Do you intend for me to siege the castle by myself? A one man siege would indeed be a sight to see, but I would much prefer an army."

Tyrion didn't suspect that the maester who was holding Rosby would turn Naharis away given that he had the will of Daenerys Targaryen, but this could be an opportunity for him to get rid of some of the people that he didn't want around the castle. Maybe he could send Daario at the head of the Brave Companions? Then Urswyck would be Daario's problem.

Getting rid of the Brave Companions would be nice, but they weren't a threat to his life. There were people in this city that wanted him and Jaime dead. Would it maybe be better to move some of them along? He had to think so.

"Go to Lady Hayford and tell her to select one hundred of her men to go with you. That should give you a hundred and fifty. That should be more than enough for you to take the castle. I will send a raven ahead of you to inform the maester of what is coming."

Naharis nodded, but he didn't move quite yet. There was a cunning smile on the lips that Tyrion could see underneath the blue beard. There was more that this man had come to talk to him about. It wasn't as simple as the Rosby inheritance. Why couldn't these things ever be simple?

"Is there anything that you want from me, Lord Naharis."

"I think its more a case of what you want from me, Lord Lannister. You see, I know some of your recent troubles, and I think I have some other information that could aid you in this conflict that you're experiencing. Trust me, Lord Lannister, I believe this could be life saving information."

Tyrion waited a few seconds for Naharis to continue. That was foolish. Clearly the sellsword was waiting for the information to be made worth his time. Tyrion remembered how he had disposed of Janos Slynt when he had first been Hand of the King. Would it be as simple to get rid of this troublesome Tyroshi?

"When I have retaken my place at Casterly Rock I shall see that you are suitably rewarded, sellsword. What information do you have?"

Naharis leaned back, and licked his lips slightly. There was a hungry look in the man's eyes.

"The great khal Rogero, who has the favour of Queen Daenerys, you know the man? He is not who he claims to be. The man is secretly known by another name. He is called Roger Tarbeck. Rogero is a faked name."

Tyrion couldn't find the words to respond to these accusations for a few seconds. It was not often that he was found speechless. The Tarbecks had been vassals of the Reynes of Castamere, before his own father had extinguished them from the map. Their castle had been destroyed, and their family name wiped out.

There had been tales of a Tarbeck survivor, a little lord spirited away across the Narrow Sea to Braavos, where he eventually went on to become a singer. Tyrion's father had never believed them. To Tywin Lannister they were the whispers of fools, who would rather believe fancy than fact. The Tarbeck boy had been brutally killed by Amory Lorch, or so he had always said.

If a Tarbeck had survived and born a son, then Rogero may have more reason than anyone to hate the lion of Lannister. Could it be he that coordinated the attempts on the lives of Lannisters? Could it be he that was approaching Willas Tyrell and threatening Tysha? The Dothraki were brutal, and they wouldn't stop till they had their way. If he had sworn his desire for revenge…

No. It couldn't be. The Dothraki may be feared warriors, but they were hardly skilled politicians. Rogero had a way with words that most Dothraki were not blessed with, but operating in the shadows was not his method. He had made his dislike for Tyrion well known. All that this potential revelation did was explain why he had been getting hate filled glares and glances. It was a relief in some ways. He had been worrying that he had said something to offend the man.

"How did you come by such information, Lord Naharis?"

Naharis chuckled.

"Sellswords may not be spymasters, but we have our own methods, little lord. Getting a horse lord's tongue loosened is no trying task. I assure you that the information is genuine."

Naharis obviously couldn't be trusted, but he benefited little from this lie. Was the vague promise of future gold enough to secure information from him? If so then he needed to improve his bargaining strategy. What would Bronn have done had Tyrion offered him that much?

"Please leave me to my thoughts, Lord Naharis. I must consider this useful information that you have provided me, so as to secure the long term prospects of both myself and my kin. I am sure you understand."

Tyrion pushed himself down off his chair, and waddled over to the door, which he pulled open. He bowed his head to the new Lord of Rosby as he left. What would old Lord Gyles have thought had he seen the man that would eventually succeed him.

He returned to his seat after the man had left. So there may be a Tarbeck amongst the retinue of the queen that he had chosen to follow. That was quite a revelation. What part of his father's beloved legacy still held true? Murdered by his own son, his daughter dying destroying the capital of the Seven Kingdoms. His two sons serving the daughter of the Mad King that he deposed. His grandchildren all ruled as King or Queen, but all three died young.

Tyrion thought of pouring himself a drink at that moment. Joffrey had been a cunt, and deserved everything that had come his way. Tommen and Myrcella had both been sweet though. Neither of them had deserved to be tied up in the great game. Neither of them had deserved to be used in the way that they had been used. Neither of them had deserved to die the way that they had, one trampled to death, the other burned alive by her own mother.

His sister had fucked the Lannisters. Willas Tyrell might seem like he did not blame Tyrion for his father and mother's deaths, but Tyrion had noted that he had kept his warrior brother by his side. There was a reason that it had been the Knight of Flowers sent at the head of the Tyrell army.

He remembered Jaime once telling him that Mace Tyrell had three fearsome commanders as his vassals. They had been Randyll Tarly, Mathis Rowan and Jon Fosswoway. Well all three of those men had been killed by Cersei. House Tarly was now dead in the male line, with the Fossoways only being lead by a young boy. Lord Rowan had left three daughters, but a male brother. The brother had taken the eldest daughter as a wife, to maintain the Rowan control over Goldengrove.

Cersei may have fucked the Lannisters, but she had fucked the Tyrells more. Between her and Euron Greyjoy, the Tyrells main vassals had been crippled. Horn Hill, Oldtown and Cider Hall had all been weakened. Brightwater Keep had been taken more times than a whore's cunt on a good night during this war.

And yet Willas Tyrell still commanded enough men that he could send twenty thousand to deal with Justin Massey, whilst still having a decent number under the command of Garlan Tyrell here at King's Landing. Removing one hundred of Lady Hayford's men hardly made a dent in the potential army that was amassing to fight him, should they decide that they disliked the Lannisters.

There was a knock on his door then, and Tyrion was removed from his musings. As the door was pushed open, Tyrion realised that it was his brother, who stepped inside. Tysha came in behind, shooting a hateful glare at Jaime. She still blamed him partially for what had happened to her. It hadn't been Jaime's fault. It had been their father's.

"Why are you here, brother?"

Jaime had a confused look on his face as he responded.

"You told me to come see you this morning. You told me to get her and come here. I didn't expect you to be ready and waiting."

"Yes, well, I am the castellan of the Red Keep. I had things to deal with. An upjumped sellsword wants his castle."

"Naharis?"

"The very same."

Tyrion poured himself a goblet of wine. He offered the bottle to Jaime, who waved it away. Tysha snatched it from him, and took a deep gulp of the red liquid. A few beads stayed on her bottom lips. Tyrion wished that he could remove them with his own lips. She was so beautiful, and fierce, and yet she hated him more than anything. Even now.

He took a sip of his own wine, and returned to his seat. Who was he kidding? How could anyone like her love him? Not only did she blame him for his betrayal, but he was also hideous. He was a dwarf with no nose. His eyes were mismatched. He was nothing but a hideous, twisted little creature, just as his father and Cersei had always said.

"Yes, well, Tom Tidewood informs me that a Dornish ship has come into port to retrieve Ser Gerris Drinkwater and Ser Andrey Dalt, as well as a few others. The ship tells of the death of Prince Doran Martell. This is news to me. Apparently some in Dorne accuse our sweet sister of having him killed."

Jaime didn't respond for a few seconds. The Jaime of a few years ago would have responded with some witty quip within a matter of seconds. This Jaime was different. He had learned to weigh up his thoughts. He had changed because of all that he had been through. Everyone had. Tyrion wasn't the same man that he had been when this all started.

"Cersei may have wanted Martell dead, that much is fair to say, but why would the assassin act so long after Cersei's death? There would be no need if she had paid in advance, and if not then there was no-one to pay them."

"Exactly my thoughts, dear brother. I have had Clegane escort the two Dornish knights down to the docks. I have also informed Ser Andrey to pass the condolences of Casterly Rock to the young princess."

Jaime nodded. Tyrion wasn't sure why he had told his brother any of that. Jaime hadn't needed to know.

"Naharis told me something interesting during our little discussion. He claims that the great Khal who follows Daenerys, the young one with the pale skin, is actually a man named Roger Tarbeck. Does the name sound familiar?"

"Our father extinguished the Tarbecks from existence. There are no more Tarbecks."

"Do you mean the handsome one?"

Tysha interrupted. Of course she thought him handsome. What woman would not. He was tall and muscled. Nothing like Tyrion. She would never want him. Not now.

"I have met him before. Gerion visited him the year after he picked me up. We met just south of Pentos. Gerion talked with the man about some other khal getting married. The pale khal was gruff and stern with Gerion, but was kind and courteous to me. I offered him my bed, but he refused, saying that he knew that I was destined for another. Shows what he knows."

Tyrion had thought that she told the story to make him jealous. Was it the opposite. Had she told him it because she wanted him to know that she was still waiting. Uncle Gerion had spirited her away from Lannisport because he thought that there could be a future between them.

"Anyway, why did you ask for me here, Lannister?"

Just then, another knock came on the door. This one was a louder wrap, which echoed throughout the room. The door was opened then, and two men stepped inside. The first belonged to a young lad with a shock of pale blond hair. Tyrion had not known Kem to be among Daenerys' followers, but when he found the young sellsword, formerly of the Second Sons, he had quickly invited him into his service. He wasn't much use with a sword, but he was brave and could learn better skills.

The other man was a tall imposing figure, with lanky black hair and a face disfigured by a horrible burn. The Hound had returned from his visit to the docks then.

"You wanted me, Lannister?"

"Yes. Do come in, my friends. I think we are ready to begin."


	125. Barristan V

Barristan Selmy knew that his pristine white cloak was being stained by the ashes of Harrenhal as he strode through what remained of the grand old castle. This place had supposedly been cursed since the days of Harren the Black, who had died in these walls, in the same way as Bonnifer Hasty. Whatever else had happened here, the smallfolk now had at least one more ghost to add to the long list that haunted these hated halls. Whatever the maesters said about the issue, Barristan Selmy knew that these halls were haunted.

For it had been here, all those years ago, that Rhaegar Targaryen had ridden past his own wife, the sickly Elia Martell, and had crowned Lyanna Stark as the Queen of Love and Beauty. That had been the same Lyanna Stark that had been betrothed to Robert Baratheon. She had been the sister of Brandon and Eddard Stark. The daughter of Rickard Stark. Aerys Targaryen, the Mad King, he had been here too, protected by Oswell Whent and Arthur Dayne, by Jonothor Darry and Lewyn Martell.

All those names, all those faces. They were all dead now. Baratheon. Stark. Darry and Whent. Martell and Dayne. Rhaegar Targaryen had been thought to be the last dragon. Had they been wrong? Robert Baratheon had slain him on the Trident, and with it had all but ended the line of the Targaryen dragons.

And now here were two Targaryens back at Harrenhal, and there was another tragedy to add to the long list that had been done in the name of controlling the Iron Throne. How many had to die for an uncomfortable chair? How many had to suffer so that all these highborn lords, not just daenerys and Aegon, could play their game of thrones.

He strode through the ruins with Bryce Cafferen and Brienne of Tarth. It was a sombre walk through a sombre place. His brother and sister of the white cloaks did not take any joy in what was being called a victory by most. He was glad of that, for he feared that he would have to lose his temper if either of them called out their joy at such a tragic loss.

Up ahead he spied the red haired Tristan Rivers, who was knelt amongst the ash, cleaning what looked to be a shield. On it was the purple and white sigil of the House of Hasty. The shield was badly burned, but still Ser Tristan tried to clean it.

"They were a house of the Stormlands, and yet this is what we did to them. They would not have refused to bend the knee had we asked properly. The old man offered a match of single combat. Any one of the Golden Company lieutenants could have taken him, and yet this was the choice that Aegon made. This is madness."

The man was brave to say such honesty. Most of the Golden Company were camped near the God's Eye, celebrating this victory. Ser Tristan must have come up to look around the ruins of the castle. Barristan had thought him different to the other sellswords, and now this just served as evidence. The man did not fit in with the rest of the Golden Company.

The Targaryens had made their camp just south of the castle. Daenerys had dispatched Rogero at the head of what few Dothraki remained, with letters for the Lords of Maidenpool and Darry, to use the destruction of Harrenhal to convince them to bend the knee to her and Aegon.

Barristan remembered Lord William Mooton from a trip that Robert had once paid to Maidenpool. The man was a craven, who despised confrontation. He wasn't even a lord that pretended to be fierce or strong. He was weak, and he would bend the knee to Rogero the moment that the sparse khalasar came near his walls.

Barristan was less sure about Darry. The castle was held by a Frey now, a boy by the name of Bradamar. The Darrys of old had been staunch Targaryen loyalists. They had fought for Aerys Targaryen during the Usurper's Rebellion, and had suffered for it when it was Robert that emerged as the victor. Barristan had heard tell of the murder of the last Lord Darry shortly before he left for Pentos.

The boy had been naught more than six years.

The Freys were a cravenly house, who would hold no qualms in betraying their liege lords for a side that they thought were more likely winners. Certainly that had been the truth when old Lord Walder had been at their head, but he knew little of Perwyn Frey, aside from the fact that he owed everything he had to Edmure Tully. He doubted that the Freys would turn traitor.

Still, by the time that Rogero returned to them they should have Maidenpool at their back, and from then they would march towards Riverrun. Aegon had wanted to go via Lychester and Stone Hedge, to further prove the strength of the new dragons. Daenerys, meanwhile, wanted to get Riverrun to bend the knee as soon as possible.

He awakened from his daydreams to see that Brienne and Bryce were scrambling through some of the rubble of the castle. Tristan had gone with them. The Golden Company knight lifted up a boulder, using his strength, and the two Kingsguard knights ducked under. Out from beneath the rock they pulled a small body.

Together they carried the carcass over to the path of ash. Whence they laid it down, Barristan realised that it was the charred corpse of a little girl. Her hair had been burned away, as had her clothes. She had clearly been spared the brunt of the dragon flames, for there was still melted, twisted flesh on her bones, where most other bodies were just charred bones. The girl's eyes were gone, but the blistered skin of her face remained, twisted into a scream of terror.

"By the Seven."

Cafferen muttered the words as he looked down on the body. Brienne moved her hand to her mouth, whilst Tristan bowed his head out of sombre respect. Barristan felt the need to wipe away tears from her eyes.

He scooped up what remained of the girl and started to walk back along the way that they came, until they were outside the area where the grand walls had once stood. There he placed the body down on the frozen ground and crouched down next to it. The others had followed him.

"Run back to camp, Bryce. Fetch four shovels. This girl should be buried away from this disaster."

Cafferen needed no further convincing to leave the scene, and he ran away. That meant Barristan was left with Brienne and Tristan. He rose to his feet, and looked at the two of them.

"If we took her back to camp then we could show them what happened here. Maybe they would stop their celebrations when they see what cruel fate befell the people of Harrenhal?"

Brienne's suggestion was a noble one. Like him, she grew sick of hearing the celebrations directed towards the death and destruction of hundreds of people. Maybe they would listen if they showed them this girl, but somehow Barristan doubted it. The maiden had not known much war. She was a stranger to the brutality of a male soldier. They would not care about a little girl's suffering.

"No. I will not make a symbol out of this little girl. She will be buried, and find her way to the Seven in their heaven. Those who celebrate her death, well I suspect they will end up in the seven hells. We can but only hope."

A few minutes passed in silence after that. Brienne bowed her head and closed her eyes. She was a child of summer still, Barristan knew. Most of them knew. The Starks had wise words. Winter is coming. Winter was always coming, and those who grew up during summer would always be hit hardest.

He had known more winters than most in the Seven Kingdoms. Many of them had thought to claim his life, and yet he had always survived. Why had he done that? So that he could give his life over to rulers that did this to innocent children?

The Mad King had burned Rickard and Brandon Stark alive. He had killed cowardly Qarlton Chelsted in the same fashion. He had let that happen. He had not said anything to stop it. He was regaled as a brave knight, yet he was just as cravenly as William Mooton, or so it seemed.

Barristan looked up at the grand ruins of Harrenhal. The great curtain walls had crumbled under the flame of Drogon, whilst the Kingspyre and Widow's Towers had both fallen after Viserion had perched atop them and rained hell down on the garrison from above. Aegon and Rhaegal had hit the armory so hard that the metal sword inside had almost all been melted under the heat of the fire. What little remained of the castle was nought but charred stone covered in ash of flames and the dead, burned to a crisp.

Cafferen returned soon after that with four shovels strapped over his back. He handed them around, and the four of them got to work, digging the hole until it was deep enough for what remained of the girl. Barristan aided Tristan in lowering the girl into the whole, and then the four of them filled the whole up again. Soon it was just a mound. That was all that there was to commemorate the girl that died in this destruction.

"We have nothing to mark the grave. In twenty years time no-one will know that there lies a murdered girl here."

Tristan spoke the words, and Barristan noted the use of the word murdered. Tristan had been really angered by this destruction. He shouldn't let it get to him like this.

"I have something."

Brienne spoke up, and shrugged off her white cloak. She unsheathed her sword, and forcefully planted it into the disturbed ground. She then wrapped her cloak around the hilt and turned to stride away. Tristan followed her. They were headed back to camp. Barristan watched them go. He stayed there with Bryce for a few more moments.

"Ser Barristan, I- I do not know how I can do this. I don't think I can serve what Aegon has become. I thought him a wise ruler, but loss has twisted his mind to become a monster intent on destruction. I don't think I can honestly and honourably follow him. You were a leal follower of the Mad King. Do you have any advice?"

Cafferen had originally been left behind in King's Landing, but had ridden out to them with a message from Tyrion Lannister, the kinslaying Imp, to inform them that the Tyrells were set to march on Justin Massey. He had arrived at camp the day before the attack on Harrenhal.

The question that Bryce asked him made Barristan think more. Should he have stood up to Aerys Targaryen? Should he have protected Queen Rhaella when the king raped her? Should he have stood up for Rickard and Brandon Stark and for poor Qarlton Chelsted? Those were not the words that he had sworn, but Aerys had called himself the Protector of the Realm. Why should he be allowed to break his sacred oath, but Barristan must keep his?

"Come boy, let us return to camp. I have things that I must do."

Bryce nodded, and turned to walk back. Barristan took one more lingering look at the grave that they had dug, the white cloak fluttering atop it. He spoke a silent prayer to the seven that the girl find her true place in the afterlife, and then he turned to return to camp.

The ale and mead was already flowing when he returned, the same as it had been when they left. Most of it had been stolen from the cellars deep beneath Harrenhal. The people there had little use of it now, after all. It was cursed ale stolen from the dead.

He did not walk for the tent that had been set up for the white brothers of the Kingsguard, but instead for the stables on the west side of the camp. He knew that it would be there that he would find who he was looking for. He indicated for Bryce to follow him.

Brienne of Tarth was already atop a horse when he arrived, joined by Tristan Rivers. She was no longer wearing her white enamel armour, but instead a dented suit of second hand armour. He had known that this was what she was planning.

"I do hope that you have not come to stop me leaving, Ser. I have made up my mind. I will not give my life to monsters."

He ignored her speech, and instead walked over to the stable, walking a horse out from the tent, and handing the reigns to Ser Bryce, who looked perplexed at the offer.

"Here is my advice, boy. Do not make the same mistakes that I made. Honour and glory is one thing when sung about by others, but a man's true honour is that which he finds for himself. I have lost mine. I will not let you lose yours."

The boy bowed his head and mounted the mare that Barristan had brought for him. He turned to Brienne.

"For where do you ride, my Lady?"

"I ride for Darry, and from there I shall head north, to White Harbour. Arya Stark is being returned to the North, and I swore an oath to her lady mother that I would protect her. I shall find her and make good on my oath."

A noble cause.

"And you know that if you fall into the hands of Daenerys or Aegon then it shall be your life that is forfeit?"

It was Tristan that spoke up.

"We do. I shall ride with the Lady Brienne. Will you join us, Ser Cafferen?"

"I shall."

Barristan bowed his head to the trio.

"Then I bid you farewell and good luck. I hope that you make it to the North and complete your goals, my friends. May we see each other again, in happier times."

The three of them each nodded to him, and then turned, driving their horses out of the camp and off into the rolling hills of the Riverlands. He watched them go, until they were naught but moving specks in the distance. He sighed. He turned. He looked at the camp of joy.

And he went to take his place by his Queen's side.


	126. The Fallen Reader

Rodrik the Reader had been reduced to this. Here he was, the Lord of Ten Towers, sat on a stool, flaying the flesh from the fingers of a dead man. It had started a few days before. He had been sick at first, every time that he looked at the decaying, cold flesh. The expulsions had nearly stopped since then, but not completely. They would never completely stop. What he was being made to do was unnatural.

He looked up at the face of the man whose skin he was peeling away. His hair was grey and sparse. His face was wrinkled, and covered in the dried blood that had run from the wound that had killed him. In life this man had been Dunstan Drumm, a proud man and a strong captain. Now he was reduced to this. There was no pride in what he had become. There was only disrespect and dishonour.

Euron had insisted that all the Drumm men that had been killed in his massacre have the skin of their right hands flayed away, to leave their hands skeletal, just as the sigil that the Drumms had once born on their flag. There were no male Drumms left. The house was dead. Euron had wiped them from existence.

He had also taken the ancestral Drumm sword, Red Rain, from the walking corpse of their former lord. He carried it at his waist now, the monster king of the Iron Islands. What was he King of now? Hardly any houses had survived the man's massacre. The Saltcliffes and Wynchs had been eradicated. One of Lord Goodbrother's sons had survived the massacre, but Euron had since killed the boy in a rage. The two Botleys that had been with them had both been killed, but there was still some of them with Asha, mayhaps.

Euron had killed Rogen Saltbeard atop that peak. He had been the only dead man not to rise again. Rodrik wasn't sure why the man had been spared such a fate. Bralon Blacktyde had fallen to his death, along with Aeron Damphair, who was the last of Euron's brothers, and had been one of his captives.

They hadn't left the camp yet, which confused Rodrik. What was Euron still doing here. He knew that the Crow's Eye was planning an attack on Stannis Baratheon at Winterfell, but what did he gain from delaying. All he was doing was allowing Stannis to bring more men to his cause. Euron had an army of dead men. What more could he want?

Rodrik remembered a book that he had read one, written by some Maester that had long since been dead, about the burial and funerary habits across Westeros. The Ironborn were unique in their way of disposing of their dead. They sent them off to sea, where they would join the Drowned God in his watery halls.

Some Ironborn wetnurses told tales about the dead walking at the bottom of the sea. Had they been prophetic stories? Rodrik had seen the impossible. He had seen the dead emerge from the seas. His two sisters had both been buried at sea after Euron had them killed. Would they be somewhere in this army?

He shuddered at the thought, and tried to put it to the back of his mind. He would not go looking for them, and tarnish his memories of Gwynesse and Alannys.

Instead he looked around at the two other men seated nearby him

Another was Little Lenwood Tawney, who had been close friends with Bralon Blacktyde. Lenwood kept shooting Rodrik dirty looks. He blamed him for Bralon's dead. It was Rodrik's betrayal that had prevented them ever rising up against Euron. He didn't remember why he betrayed his brother in arms. Euron had a queer way of getting into your head. The man was a monster, but persuasion was one of his most dangerous skills.

And then there was Left Hand Lucas Codd. He and the Red Oarsman had been spared the fate of living dead, but they may as well be. They did Euron's bidding with never an objection. Their eyes were empting, and they were shambling husks of the men that they had been before. The Codds had used to boast how all men did despise them. Lucas had helped leave far fewer Ironborn with the free will to hate his family.

There had been Codd men amongst those that Euron massacred. There were Humble, Wynch and Sunderly men too. They had all supported Euron achieve his power, and yet all of them were dead. Dead men and dead houses. The Codds may live on through Lucas, but they may as well not. There was no man left in his body, let alone Ironborn.

There had been other survivors, but Euron never allowed for them to be more than three together at any one point. His other cousins, Harras and Hotho, would be in their own cages, set up in one of the tents. Harras had managed to hide Nightfall before Euron took them, at least, which meant Euron needed him alive should he want possession of the Valyrian Steel sword.

Maron Volmark was another survivor. The young lord of Volmark had become Euron's new plaything ever since his brother Aeron had fallen to his death. Rodrik wasn't sure what Euron was doing to the boy, but he heard whimpers and screams coming from the tent that held Volmark and no others.

Two others had survived truly. There was the two women, who Rodrik now knew to be Malora Hightower, who Euron had taken when they had sacked Oldtown, and Falia Flowers, the bastard of a southron lord that Euron had taken as a salt wife. The girl was broken and capable of little more than babbling speech now. Rodrik didn't wish to know what unspeakable things that Euron had done to her.

Some more of Dunstan Drumm's flesh fell to the floor in the mocking ritual of House Glover. Harras swore that he had done three of Drumm's sons the day before. Most of the men had been thralls, bastards, and other members of the smallfolk. Some of the corpses were even bloated and wet from the sea. They had still been aboard the Drumm ships when they had been sunk.

He dragged the knife down the bone, flaying more of the flesh away and allowing it to drop to the floor. There was a bucket sat next to him, in case he needed to retch. Euron made them clean their buckets at the end of the day, so it was worth it to not retch too much. It was the sound of the flesh hitting the ground and the smell of the decaying dead that caused him most of the trouble.

He moved the knife to the bone again, but the motion was interrupted by the sound of commotion a few feet away from him. He looked up, and saw Lucas Codd on the floor, a throwing dagger plunged deep in the back of his neck.

Lenwood reacted to the attack faster than Rodrik, rising to his feet and turning the blade he held in the direction that the dagger had been thrown from. No new projectiles came. Instead, a figure charged out from the nearest bush. He was lithe and strong, quick on his feet and agile. When Lenwood launched the dagger at the oncoming man, he managed to duck and roll in time that the dagger missed and Lenwood was left unarmed.

And then the man flew into Lenwood, taking them both to the ground. Suddenly, a new dagger was in the hands of the assailant, and it was looking like he was going to plunge it down and end Tawney for good.

"Stop! Don't kill him!"

Rodrik stepped forward, pushing the body of the man who had once been Dunstan Drumm aside. He held his own knife in his hand, something which their attacker clearly noted.

"I didn't expect to see you working for the Crow's Eye, Reader. Your niece would be ashamed if she could see you like you are now. Nothing more than a slave."

"You know Asha?"

The man turned his face towards Rodrik, who took a step back when he saw it. Half the face was marked by the burned flesh and singed hair that had once been there. The flesh was red and raw, with a knife scar cutting through the right eye. The colour had drained out of the other side of his face, though at least there the sandy hair covered the pale complexion, and the brown eye. He knew this man.

"Do I know Asha? She was my lover, Reader. She was my captain. I followed her to these forsaken lands and look what it cost me. They called me Qarl the Maid once. Now they must call me Qarl the Hideous. I came here for the Crow's Eye. I came here to kill him and all those who follow him. I came here for Asha."

The Maid had been one of the more ferocious members of Asha's crew, Rodrik remembered. He wasn't the largest man on the Islands, but he was quick and fearless, or at least he had been. What had happened to the man that this ghoul was all that was left of him?

"We do not willingly serve the Crow's Eye. He enslaves us, that is true. He intends to destroy Stannis Baratheon, and everyone else after that. You must help me. Help us, Qarl."

"You dare to demand anything of me, Reader? If Euron desires to destroy Stannis Baratheon and his fire worshipping cunts then he can feel free. I would happily watch each and every one of them torn apart."

The man was angry, that much was clear. He seemed to have every right to be. Rodrik couldn't imagine what he had gone through at the hands of those men, though should Euron destroy Stannis then he feared for the rest of them. The Crow's Eye had promised him a Kingdom once, but that had been all lies, not that it had been the power that had swayed Rodrik.

"I do not demand. I beg. Save us and take us away. Me, and Lenwood, and my cousins too. Save us and I will take you to Asha. I will return you to her."

That caused Qarl's ears to prick up.

"You know where Asha is?"

"That I do. I will only tell if you help though."

Qarl glared at the ground for a few seconds. Well, as much as a man can glare with only one good eye. He then looked up, a fierce determination in his eye.

"Very well, Reader. I will do this. Not for you, but for your niece. I will recover your cousins and bring them to you. I will go alone though. You should run for two leagues east. There you will find a small camp. Wait for me there and I will bring you your kin."

And so Rodrik and Lenwood ran, leaving the body of Left Hand Lucas Codd to rot. For two leagues they ran, away from the ocean and the saltwater which the Ironborn called home, and towards the camp that Qarl the Maid had said they would find. When they got there, they found what was promised. The camp was small, with a fire that was still smoldering from the last time that it had been lit. There was a spit, though the meat that had been on it had been stripped away, and a small pile of bones lay nearby. A hastily created tent stood in the snow, a lot of which had been cleared away into banks at the side of the camp.

"Of all the people that should have survived this, Reader, you are not the one who deserved it. You are a traitor, who cost the lives of many good men by betraying us to the Crow's Eye. How many of them would still be alive had you not betrayed us?"

"The Crow's Eye knew of our treachery before he summoned me to those rooms on the Arbor. I did nothing but confirm what he already knew. I would have supported Asha if I could. I did what I did to try and keep us all alive."

Lenwood snarled. He may have been a little man, but he was fearsome on the attack. He spat in the snow, a look of disgust upon his face.

"How did that work out for you? Sunderly, Drumm and Goodbrother were massacred by those dead monstrosities. Bralon died trying to right your wrongs, and he took the Damphair with him. How many dead men are on your conscience, Reader?"

Was Tawney right? Had he caused that massacre on the Stony Shore by working with Euron? He had hoped that he would be able to turn on the Crow's Eye when the time was right, and put Asha upon the Seastone Chair. His plan had backfired. Asha was missing, maybe dead, and Euron had succeeded in all his plans. He had destroyed the Ironborn fleet, and turned their troops into these monsters of the dead. Asha's little brother, Theon, was somewhere in the North, and Euron's brothers, Aeron and Victarion, were both dead. Euron was the last true Greyjoy. There was no one who could replace him now. He had won, though at what cost?

Rodrik had always believed himself to be a smart man. The rest of the Islands had thought him a craven, hiding away in his library at Ten Towers, but he had studied the wars of the past, and there was something about what Euron had done which sounded familiar to him. There was a legend that the Ironborn held, of a sorcerer king who brought the souls of the dead up from the Drowned God's watery halls. Was that what Euron was doing now? Was he the sorcerer king reborn, intent on bringing death and destruction on the world? It sounded like something that the Crow's Eye would do. And he had been the one who facilitated it. How would he ever be able to forgive himself?

"When you think of their faces, remember who it was that sent them to their deaths, Reader. Just you remember."

Just as Tawney lambasted him one more time, there came the sound of running feet crunching on the snow. Tawney picked up an axe that had been discarded onto the floor. Rodrik looked for a weapon for himself, but there was none to hand. If it was the Crow's Eye coming for them then they would be dead. There was no way Lenwood could fend off the army of the dead with a single axe.

The first figure came around the corner, followed by another, and another, and then another. They all had weapons drawn, and the last one to come around held two axes. He used one of them to cut down a decayed corpse who was attacking him. The first man to the camp was Rodrik's cousin, Boremund Harlaw. He was panting, with a single axe drawn. There was some blood on the blade.

The rest of the four came next. The group was made up of Boremund's brother, Harras Harlaw, as well as Maron Volmark and Qarl the Maid, who was the man holding two axes. There was no sign of any of the other men that Euron had taken. Harras walked over to Rodrik. He was out of breath also, and he wore a sword at his belt, though it was an axe in his hand.

"I recovered Nightfall before we ran, but Hotho was killed by a group of those dead things. We freed the girls too, but the Hightower girl ran north instead. She said she had a destiny to meet that way. The bastard just collapsed and refused to go. We had to leave her behind."

"The important thing is that you got yourself out. We are free of the Crow's Eye, for now at least. We have to move."

"No. We stay here."

Qarl was wiping one of his axes clean of blood when he spoke. He had seated himself on a tree stump which had been lightly covered in frost.

"If we head north or east then we risk falling into the clutches of Stannis Baratheon, who will likely just throw us in a cage, if not burn us alive. There is nothing to the south, and to the west is Euron. We camp here and wait for Euron to march against Stannis. Then we head west, find a ship and return to Pyke and return to Asha."

"And what if Euron finds us? You want us to sit here like ducks for the kill?"

Harras turned on Qarl. Rodrik's cousins were both fighters, but Harras was a knight, and more intense than his brother.

"We are six Ironborn. If Euron comes for us then we fight our way to safety. I have seen worse than the Crow's Eye in my life, and I do not fear him or his legions of the dead."

Harras and Qarl shared a brief glaring match, but eventually the knight backed down. Rodrik was surprised. He went over to his cousin, who had taken his own seat, and sat beside him.

"We aren't truly free of the Crow's Eye until he is dead, cousin. You know that. I would have killed him then if I could, but he was nowhere to be found. We killed the Red Oarsman, but there was no Euron. I wondered where he had gone, but none of the others cared."

"Wherever he is, we are not safe from him, Harras. You are right. Until he is dead we will never be safe, but I would rather be here than in that camp. Don't you agree?"

Harras grimaced. Rodrik didn't know what Euron had done to his two cousins, but he would rather not think about it. The Crow's Eye had a mind filled with horrors.

"Qarl saved us from Euron. He brought us here. Let us put our trust in him. Should the time come however, let us remember that we are family. And family is what is most important."


End file.
